Stars From the Gutter
by LifeInABox66
Summary: Life has much to offer those who step outside their allocated role. When Anzu is whisked into a royal palace and Ryou is propelled into a den of thieves, both face Promethean politics and a cold war of rival empires. Steampunk AU. Dance/Tornshipping
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Greetings, all! Here is the much-awaited first chapter of mine and Aluminium's epic, shiny new project! **

**Warnings: Aluminium and I are of the firm opinion that shonen and shojo ai are not warnings, but enticements. Consider yourself enticed. **

* * *

><p><em>We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.<em>

_- Oscar Wilde_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Egypt, 1870<strong>_

"Someday, you bastard, you are going to get us very killed."

"Killed? Nice night for it, I suppose."

"Nice night for _dying_? Pay attention, Bakura."

* * *

><p>The moon hangs placidly in the sprawling sky, beckoning the heat-drowsy crowds to their assorted temples of worship, as Ryou crouches starving in the dust. The gazes which rest momentarily upon him flicker automatically away, consigning him to the neutral hands of fate. Those whose eyes linger long enough to note his colouring scurry onwards with anxious haste.<p>

A sandaled foot scuffs the edge of his tunic. Ryou clears his throat to apologise for blocking the edge of the street, but the words expire on his desiccated tongue, and the stranger is gone by the time he manages to gulp down any amount of cooling desert air.

Briefly, he wonders what it will be like. To die, that is. His thoughts are awfully rough around the edges, dulled by lack of food and blurred by insomnia. But he can sense it very sharply, a bitter tang on his aching tongue: all signs declare he is not long for this world. The next, he thinks, might not accept him, bereft as they are of any indication of his existence. No real name - no relatives to care for the body. His ka will surely fade away, a hushed whisper on a dying breeze, just like the rest of him…

The moon glimmers in the corner of his vision.

_Live._

It is like a prayer. A short, blunt word, stemming from the vast, inexorable drive of self-preservation. Not that there is much chance of survival, money, and sustenance, and sympathy being as scarce as they are. That the moon is indeed speaking directly to him is about as likely.

Nonetheless.

_Live._

Undoubtedly, it is a hallucination, fuelled – as it were - by malnutrition. Dehydration. Delirium, most likely. What possible way is there for him to live? None – none at all. Ryou owns what is left of the clothes on his back, and literally nothing else. No money, no food... no _water_. Despised by all for the deadly combination of stark white hair and pale blue eyes, Ryou has all the status that befits a demon. So, most importantly, no _connection._

How can he possibly live?

_Live._

_Stop _it.

A few men shuffle past him, giving way to miniature plumes of dust. Returning from worship, perhaps. Indulging in a stately stroll back to their stately homes – all offerings left at the feet of impassive Khonsu; all guilt effortlessly assuaged. All in all, they are as predisposed to aid Ryou as the sunbaked huts around him, or the airships hanging vaguely on the horizon, ethereal twists of steam trickling esoterically from their hatches.

Hanging behind the worshippers, are two noblemen – arguing, it seems, yet with an assertive air of nonchalant poise. A shock of tawny hair, framing dusky Kemetic skin denotes the one - yet, incongruously, he is wrapped in the sharpest of Albion finery: a gray, clear-cut suit, with that fatal simplicity that betrays colossal expense. Adorned with a jaunty top hat and swathed in a light, ruffled cape, he makes for a curious sight – like fire clothed in shadow. The second man is all shadow decked in light. A pallid, placid, smirking face; there is a luminous quality to his features that betrays neither Albian nor Kemetic origin. As they step closer, Ryou notices that the second, taller man is adorned by countless jewels. Two pearl droplets quiver at his earlobes, and his throat glistens with gold chains. Thick, metallic bangles drip from his ghostly wrists, whilst a glimmering broach peeks coyly from his cravat. Ostentatious even for Alexandria. Ryou turns a dizzy head to face them directly, hypnotised. Hanging from one hand, swinging casually, chain looping from one finger to another like some complacent magician's trick, is a pocket watch.

It shines like the moon.

_Live._

* * *

><p>"Are you honestly so upset that I seduced that fool Ambassador's daughter? Because frankly, Marik, it isn't like you to be so prudish."<p>

"I'm not upset about the daughter! That was part of the _plan. _You remember those, don't you? Plans? No, the fact that you had to go and screw her _brother _alongside is what I'm _upset _about."

"How could I resist? He was rather lovely..."

"Bullshit. You mean he was _willing_, thus you couldn't pass up on an opportunity to cause chaos. You know, someday, I'd like to see one of these operations run smoothly – namely, _minus _the presence of a livid father cursing us in the name of every god under the sun and moon, and sending _assassins _to _kill us with swords._"

"That didn't seem to be your perspective back in Memphis, if I recall correctly."

"_Fuck _Memphis."

* * *

><p>Marik increases his pace, to signify to Bakura that this strand conversation has reached its <em>end<em>. Hopefully, it will also convey how furious he is with this latest exploit – a futile venture, for the realisation will leave no dent in his partner's pride – that damned assurance will remain as flawless as ever. However. On principle, he speeds up, moving out of step with Bakura; purposefully, he ploughs through the crowd, ignoring various squawks of protest. With any luck, the assassins will cut the bastard down before they reach the _Diabound_. Serve him right for bringing up Memphis. _And_ for neatly sabotaging such a promising scheme with his unrepentant lack of restraint.

But mostly for bringing up Memphis.

Halfway through a particularly dense cluster of people, Marik swivels around, eliciting more indignant cries of which, again, he takes no notice. "Kura!" he yells. "Where the hell did we park the ship, anyway?"

No answer, for his elusive eel of a partner has apparently melted into the shadows. Meaning Marik is, for the moment, isolated in this sun-baked gem of a city – which, frankly, is no hardship. Alexandria has the power to continually startle him: once a battered colony in turmoil, enduring the agony of occupation; now the pinnacle of a hard-won Empire, rich, thriving, and constantly changing. Marik was not alive when it was merely a fragment of Albion rule, but as a child, he witnessed much of its rise to glory as the focal point of all Kemet. Like a microcosm of Egypt itself, it scraped the ignominious depths of servitude as an impoverished slave to English rule – then rose to fiery heights during a heated clash for independence. Marik saw the latter half of Egypt's rise to world prominence reflected in the development of Alexandria: the background scene of crumbling pyramids gradually effaced by a steely skyline of trading airships; the visible affluence of the growing city centre, clustered no longer with solitary stalls of dubious produce, but packed with wealthy marketers, selling specialist goods, and the sumptuous native foods that the country could now afford to keep rather than export. He learned the city as studiously as he learned the English tongue, as a young adolescent.

The slums, however, are new.

With great prosperity inevitably comes great paucity to balance it. Marik smirks grimly; the more Egypt seeks to emulate its lofty rival-nation, the more it follows the foreboding trail of excess and poverty blazed by Albion. With rampant industrialisation – set in the context of a stubbornly feudal society, no less – come areas like _this. _Pitiful mud-shacks which cling to the edges of the vast city, rubbing unhygienic shoulders with the heights of skilled architecture. All cities have an underside; this one is refreshingly visible.

"Bakura!" he howls once more – trapped in his musings, the crowds have passed him by, and he is now the only standing figure in this dusty, beggar-laden street.

Bastard must have slipped away – _why _is beyond Marik's capability of guesswork, but it must undoubtedly have been some heavily capricious whim of which he did not feel any particular need to inform his partner. As a rule, Bakura never operates on anything besides the spur of the moment - and it must be an extremely recent moment, at that, else he will change his mind with all the speed of a desert snake.

He turns, disorientated, and takes another breath, preparing to yell one more time. "Bakur-"

A cool hand clamps firmly over his mouth. "Calm yourself, brat, or someone will alert the authorities," sneers a voice from behind.

"Brat yourself," retorts Marik, cheerfully, and although the words are somewhat muffled, the meaning is undoubtedly relayed.

Bakura lets go. Marik spins around to face him, and with some trepidation, notices that Bakura's other hand is preoccupied with holding the wrist of a woebegone beggar boy in an exceedingly painful looking grip. The boy struggles somewhat limply, and Marik shudders. Eyebrow raised, he inquires: "Who's your, ah, friend?"

"Oh, this?" says Bakura, twisting the boy's elbow until he gives a mewling sort of squawk. "May I present to you the next of the great Egyptian thieves?"

Oh _hell. _Bakura is in _that _kind of mood – the playful, teasing one in which he painstakingly eviscerates the target of his contempt. Like a cat toying with a half-dead bird. And, indeed, this boy looks more than _half _dead; judging by his sullen, emaciated looks, he is only a handful of missed meals away from the afterlife. Marik has no intention of watching Bakura play with his food.

"Cut the crap and leave him be," groans Marik, eager to leave this tedious place. He makes a lackadaisical grab for the boy; Bakura wrenches him out of reach before anything can come of it, cue another pitiful squeal. "Oh, for the love of... what did he do to you? Step on your toes?"

Bakura laughs the sadistic laugh of a supercilious predator. A crocodile, decides Marik. "This little guttersnipe had the temerity to try for my pocket watch," he says, still grinning. The things Bakura finds _funny... _"I've never seen such appalling technique in my life. If I had to guess, I would imagine this might even have been his first attempt at stealing. Wretch ought to be more experienced in crime, by all rights."

When pain is not anchoring him to earth, the boy has a glazed look which denotes that unique kind of death-drenched apathy. He has ceased to struggle, instead hanging resignedly from Bakura's grip, knees splayed uncaringly in the dirt.

"Spare me from your criticisms of the youth of today," snaps Marik. "If you're not going to slit his throat, hurry and let him go. What do you want him for?"

"Indeed, what _would _one want him for?" rejoins Bakura, mockingly. "Contemptible, isn't he?" He gives the boy a provoking shake. "Barely lucid enough to whine for mercy."

Amidst Bakura's harshness, and the boy's unresponsive torpor, something shifts in Marik. He is not, and has never been, cruel, after all.

He steps closer. Kneeling to face the beggar, he runs a gentle hand through his grimy hair. "I don't know," he mutters, musingly. "He's rather pretty underneath all the dirt."

Bakura sighs, impatiently. "He's not pretty; he's deplorable."

Marik tilts the boy's head to face him. His eyes hang exhaustedly, fixated on the floor. "What's your name?" he asks, almost kindly.

"Mm? 'M Ryou..." he murmurs hazily in reply, as though plucking the words from a dream.

"Ryou," repeats Marik. He glances up at Bakura. "White hair and blue eyes. _You've_ found us a _demon_."

Bakura laughs, a full, appreciative guffaw. "Right. Deadly, this one." Yet his eyes seem to _glitter. _

Marik meets his partner's gaze, boldly. "What say we adopt ourselves a demon child?" he says, roguish and semi-serious. Half-formed plans begin to surface in his mind, involving mute tea-boys clad in ornate Egyptian finery, and petit young thieves flexible enough to do all the irritating legwork and shimmying up of drainpipes involved in their exceptional line of work - or, failing that, wonderfully loyal slaves to act as decoy during the trickier heists...

"Oh, _Marik._" Bakura's hand meets his forehead, in elegant exasperation.

"The more I think about it, the more I like the idea," continues Marik, regardless. He knows the requisite methods for Bakura-persuasion. _Insert alluring hypothetical reasoning_. "Clean him and polish him and make him our pretty little demon apprentice." _Enhance with a pertinent observation. _"He's small enough to be quite agile, if given the chance." _And then finish on a challenge_. "You said he was a terrible thief; train him, then."

Bakura runs a contemplative hand through the beggar's much-abused hair. "A demon apprentice..." he muses.

"A pretty new toy," smirks Marik.

"Who could miss him?"

"He has no prospects. No friends or money. From the look of it, no more than a day or so on this earth, minus our munificent intervention. It'd be merciful, really."

"It'd be _interesting._"

"Exactly my thoughts."

"All right. I'm bored enough. Why not?"

* * *

><p>The sky is the deep blue of spilt ink, marred only by swirling plumes of steam and cloud which mingle and dance about the aircraft. The thin brass railing is cool against his hand, but for a moment, he forgets about that. Amidst the clatter of cogs and the gentle rumble of the engine, high above the bustle and interference of modern life, Seto soars.<p>

"Brother?" Tentatively, Mokuba steps out onto the deck. He looks drowsy; Seto wonders vaguely whether he should enforce a curfew. His younger sibling is usually so very self-sufficient. "Seto, I'm sorry I didn't thank you earlier. Your present was very nice."

Seto had given him coiled gold wires, tensile and gleaming. Intricately linked cogs, the tiny teeth locked perfectly together. Bright leather, polished and nearly blue– wings. Seto had given Mokuba the most beautiful clockwork toy ever to spring from a workshop bench.

"Was it? I have been… inspired, of late." And he has been: his mind has been filled with hopeless whimsy. Truly, he cannot help but succumb to it.

"Yes, I know. You've been very distant."

With the night stretched out before him, Seto frowns a little. Surely his recent absentmindedness has not impacted on his work? "I have been. However, I feel that it is warranted. We are headed for London, and my latest innovations are to be the centrepiece of this year's exhibition. If I have been distant, I have merely been contemplating our new situation." Suddenly, terse explanation floods into expansive expectation: "There are so many places to go to from here, Mokuba."

"From where?"

"From our new world."

Before them, Albion rushes into view. Below the very lowest clouds, the coast nestles against the sea. Beyond it, the vast expanse of green is darkened by nightfall, lit only very faintly by the full moon. Seto feels a weight on his arm, slightly warm through the sleeve of his thick jacket. Automatically, he recoils.

"Brother?"

He replaces his arm on the rail, and allows himself a tentative smile as Mokuba rests his head below his shoulder again. For a moment, they stand, silhouetted against the soft light of the _Blue Eyes'_ lanterns.

Tomorrow, they will dock in London. Tonight, he stands with his brother, and the whole of the sky shines in anticipation of their arrival.

* * *

><p><em><strong>England, 1870<strong>_

"Ante up."

"How many cards?"

"... Two."

"Here ya go. I'll exchange three."

It is a sumptuously decorated room, laden with imperial furniture, which in turn is strewn with delicate ornaments. A deep expanse of carpet encompasses the floor, framed by a sweep of heavy brocade curtains. At the centre, beneath a white waterfall of a chandelier, King Yugi Mutou and his bodyguard, Katsuya Jonouchi, sit opposite each other, at a small, intricately carved oaken table. Splayed across the surface is a haphazard array of cards and a a few uneven towers of plastic chips.

"See your one and raise you two."

"See your two and raise you three."

"See your three and raise you four."

"Aw, come one Yug, this is getting ridiculous..."

With a click, and a scrape, the door slides open.

"Ah. Glad to see you're working so hard as head of state. Don't overdo it, Yugi - we wouldn't want you to collapse from the burden," calls a wry voice from beside the corner. The King's Regent Mai Kujaku does not so much enter a room as she does invade it, capture it and label it as her conquest. True to form, she strides through the door, stopping the progress of the game in its tracks, and slowly places a masterful hand on her hips. Typically, she is clad in a sleek violet dress, trimmed just enough to border on daring: a touch of ankle showing here; a shred of petticoat visible there; neckline laced perhaps a fraction too low. Yugi and Jonouchi gradually look up, guiltily, in unison.

A peal of laughter snaps the silence cleanly in two.

Yugi and Jonouchi grin back.

"You know I'm joking," she says, serenely, as they begin to play once more. Sweeping aside her skirts, she moves to occupy the vacant chair between them. "Play all you want to; the tedious tasks are my job. You're losing, by the way, Jonouchi."

An indignant growl from her left, which she sweetly blanks.

"So... to business," she says. Cue exasperated groans. "_Briefly_." A pacified shrug from her right; she takes this as permission to continue. "Small sentences, if you want. _Fragment _sentences, no less. Ryota Kajiki. Our Ambassador to Kemet. You with me so far?"

Enthusiastic nods.

"Stripped of all his possessions, including the virginity of both his son and daughter, courtesy of a couple of Egyptian airship-pirates-stroke-thieves."

Slow silence. The card game pauses. Jonouchi's eyebrows wrinkle in confusion at the _both his son and daughter _update.

"Mm-hmm. That's right," she says, enjoying the moment somewhat. "Two most notorious thieves in the Kemetic Empire. Now apparently targeting Albian victims. Known by the names of 'Bakura' and 'Marik'. Fragment sentences still preferable, or does the situation merit proper grammar yet?"

Dazed expressions seem to indicate compliance. Jonouchi appears still to be pondering the dilemma of _son _and _daughter_.

"Right, so judging from previous experience, this is a situation with which _I_ ought to deal. We can't allow this attack on Albian hegemony to go unacknowledged – I think we all agree that a little retribution is in order, no? I say we beat the Kemetic authorities at their own game." She grins.

The silence stretches. Mai glances at the boy king to her right. He is trying, he really is trying; making so much effort that his soft face is crinkled in thought, and his eyes dart across the room, as though investigating a particularly complex puzzle. Smiling, Mai can tell that the pieces are beginning to slot together – his face suddenly smoothes and it is evident that the picture is finally discernable.

"We're going to send someone of our own to capture them!" declares Yugi, triumphantly. He brings an excited fist down on the table, causing the cards to tremble. He scrunches his nose, entertaining another brief notion. "Maybe the Kemetic government will be grateful if we catch them. It'll make them better friends with Albion if Albion helps them out!"

Mai purses her lips to smother the faint laughter which threatens to spill over. Close enough. "I'll get right on it."

"Who are we going to send, Mai? The police?"

"Leave it to me," she says, smoothly. "Hey, Jonouchi? You still with us?" Jonouchi sits slumped in his chair, chin held in one calloused hand. Uncharacteristically pensive.

"Hmm?" he says. "Ah, yeah. Look, not to be a wet blanket or anything, but what makes us better than the Kemetic police? We're looking for an _airship. _It's like, world's tiniest needle in the world's biggest haystack, right?"

Mai rolls her eyes. "Trust me on this one, like you do everything else," she says. "Guy I'm hiring is better than the entire Kemetic police force _combined._"

"Whoa, really? All right! Sounds great." All doubts dispersed, he settles into a more comfortable position and picks up his cards (wincing slightly at the content of his hand).

Mai stands, and pads halfway across the room before turning again. "You know, sometimes, the insane amount of faith you two place in me? Borders on scary."

Cheerfully, they bid her goodbye, and resume their interrupted game. Shaking her head, in a combination of mirth and despair, she exits.

* * *

><p>Not long after they set off through the moonlit streets, Ryou collapses, shocked and weakened – a not altogether uncommon reaction to the rather traumatising experience of prolonged interaction with Bakura. On the whole, Marik sympathises.<p>

"Now what do we do?" asks Marik, pointedly, nudging the motionless body with the tip of his boot-clad toe.

"Leave him as prey for ravening vultures, of course. What else?" Bakura scarcely pauses, striding onwards – presumably in the direction of their as-of-yet absent airship.

Marik sighs, gustily, and reluctantly slings Ryou's arm around his neck. With little effort – for he proves feather-light – he begins to carry the boy. His pale skin is alarmingly feverish; Marik winces at the heat. The moonlight renders his hair vaguely luminous – disturbing, for it is almost the mirror of Bakura's. In the dark, they both seem unearthly, resembling the slender shadows of spirits.

(Well, certainly, Marik has often disputed to himself whether or not his partner is completely human, but that is probably another matter altogether.)

"I'm going off this idea," Marik mutters, as they approach a desolate expanse of land. A dark, angular shape in the distance suggests – at last - the presence of the _Diabound. _Yes, upon reflection, Marik definitely recognises this deserted patch of ground. Absolutely filled with familiar piles of sand. "We can't take on an apprentice who won't pull his weight, demon or no. He doesn't even _weigh_ that much! It's not like there's a lot for him to pull!"

Bakura turns and smiles, deviously. Teeth which glint in the dim light. "Tired of your new toy already, Marik?"

Something hot and resentful in Marik flickers at the provocation, and he resolves to see this whim through to its conclusion. "Not at all," he says, calmly, and Bakura laughs, damn him.

They approach what is indeed the _Diabound._ She is, put technically, a dirgible. Her rounded envelope drifts gently in the darkening sky, straining at her tethers; absurdly thin bounds which barely seem to contain her. She is fierce, their _Diabound_. Fierce and free and ready to fly, niftily evading any and all _authority_ that might question their actions. Naturally, her gondola ruins the effect – it is an obscene shade of crimson that only Bakura would deem permissible on a ship built for stealth.

Most importantly, she is home. _Home_ is a concept largely foreign to a pair of peripatetic criminals, yet Marik and Bakura apply it, at least vaguely, to this ship, possibly in the hope that she will, somehow, reciprocate – or at the least refrain from breaking down in flames several hundred miles from the nearest major city. At any rate, she has evaded several hundred bounty hunters, several thousand bullets, and more than a few attempts on Marik's part to repaint (or at least wash) her hull, all of which have been thwarted by an affronted Bakura. The _Diabound_ is the cockroach of the airship world, and losing her would be tantamount to the loss a trusted comrade. She is also more than a little outdated and liable to falling near to pieces - but they face these shortcomings with no small amount of sanguinity, as indeed, they face most troubles in life.

"You got the problem with the hitch in the doohicky-type-thing that linked with the whatjamacallit gear fixed - right?" asks Marik, somewhat incomprehensibly, as Bakura fumbles with the lock on the opening hatch.

"Naturally," he replies, with dignity. "I hired the most skilled engineers Egypt could offer. They've been supervising the ship whilst we were gone."

The hatch swings wide open, revealing a plaintive cluster of the most ragged street urchins Marik has ever encountered – excepting, of course, the inanimate creature currently weighing down his arms. One of them grasps a filthy spanner, whilst the others are smeared with what appears to be streaks of engine oil. All grin gleefully upwards at the two gentlemen and their newly acquired ward.

Marik blinks.

Idly, Bakura tosses a jingling cloth bag to them, at which they eagerly snatch. He jerks an imperative thumb in the direction of the door. For a second, they gaze at him, open-mouthed, like startled rabbits. Then: comprehension dawns. Hurriedly, they exit the ship and run out onto the sand, treading little clouds of dust in their wake. One glances over her shoulder and shyly waves: "Goodbye, Mister Bakura!"

Marik looks at his partner, who _smiles _in what might almost be considered an avuncular fashion. Which is, frankly, terrifying. "Skilled engineers?" he repeats, sceptically.

Bakura responds with a sidelong glance. "Really, Marik, are we judging by superficialities now? I wouldn't have expected elitism from _you. _Call yourself an egalitarian?" He shrugs. "I suppose it's residual snobbery from your upbringing..."

Marik _glares_, and follows him into the ship's interior.

* * *

><p><strong>Extra notes: <strong>

**- ****So, in case this wasn't made clear... this fic is set in an alternate, steampunk universe, in which two Empires dominate the globe: Albion and Kemet, whose centres are Britain and Egypt respectively. **

**- This has been a long time in the making, and subject to some pretty intense world-building. There have even been maps drawn. **_**Maps, **_**I say. Scribbled, incompetently scaled maps. Aluminium despairs of me sometimes. **

**- Nobody mentions Memphis. Ever. **

**- When writing this, Aluminium was insistent that the Bakura we are using is the Thief King. In terms of what he looks like, I agree - but I tend to see him as more of an amalgamation of the two. So... whatever floats your boat? **

**- On historical accuracy (or lack thereof): we love the Victorians. We love the Ancient Egyptians. So we've written them into the same universe. Therefore, what you get is an insane patchwork of history, some of which may even have bearing on reality. Bear with us. The exposition will come as necessary. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: OK, so with updates coming in weekly, Aluminium and I figured that it'd help to have a recap of the previous chapter, just to remind you of what happened previously. We are nothing if not irritatingly servile, after all.**

**Recap: A dying Ryou is acquired by mysterious thieves in Alexandria, heart of the Kemetic Empire. They take him to their airship, the **_**Diabound. **_**Meanwhile, Yugi, King of Albion attends to the very important duty of playing card games with his best friend and bodyguard, Katsuya Jonouchi. The Regent, Mai Kujaku, who pretty much runs the Empire in his stead, decides to send someone to capture the thieves, who have attacked the Albian Ambassador to Egypt. Kaiba and Mokuba hover over London, ready to land. Which brings us to...**

**xXx**

Life is a glorious medley of opportunities, crystalline, bright and ready for the plucking - provided one does not focus too closely on the individual possibilities themselves. This, Anzu Mazaki is beginning to recognise, with growing trepidation. Dreams are tantalizingly detailed - technicolour in full, diamond-edged clarity – until they meld into reality, and all their gaps and flaws are cast with depressing visibility into the cloying light. Inconsequential details, once overlooked with such ease, are painfully evident, regardless of how vivid the ensuing scenarios have become.

Details such as – well. Not _beginning. _No, she had planned for _that. _She is, after all, eminently practical and aware that, if one is intent upon pursuing a career in dance alone, one must begin somewhere_. _What she had overlooked was what comes _before _beginning. A forgivable oversight, with resounding consequences. Which, in short, is the reason why, instead of standing poised, pretty and confident before a group of dashing young auditioners (yes, _dashing, _bother it – why stop short at fame when romance can be so easily included as an extra?) she is currently... well. _Not _standing poised, pretty and determined before a group of auditioners, dashing or otherwise.

... Not even a little bit.

Admittedly, it could be all kinds of worse. For instance, it could be prostitution. Yes. No need to be incredulous (for, in the back of her mind, where she is still the staid tailor's daughter, she is indeed quite appalled at the very suggestion) – it is perfectly plausible for a girl in her position to end up in... _that_... other position. Granted, in high society, it seems logical that working in a rundown tavern-slash-gaming-house is no better than prostitution, with both conveying the same overwhelming sense of scandalous _looseness. _However, it is not highsociety that she cares about, is it? Let them all rot. She wants to reach people - realpeople – and status does not enter the equation. Prudery is sole property of those at the very top; a small blessing, really. As for Anzu – she aims for a different sort of top_. _The type you actually earn. The type which requires determination. Integrity. Talent. Courage. Dilligen –

"Anzu, are ya gonna take those glasses to the kitchen, or are ya gonna become a sort of permanent statue back there?" A pause. Hand waving impatiently in front of her face. "'Cause we could do with some redecoration, true, but..."

Rats. (As a staid tailor's daughter, Anzu was brought up to keep her language clean. Using actual curse words would be out of the question – unfathomable – without some kind of censorship.) "I'll, uh, I'll move, Mr. Keith." Caught mid-internal-monologue again. She _has _to stop doing that.

"Good choice!" says Keith, already speaking over his shoulder as he swaggers about the customers, ready to venture a whisper of advice to the less competent gamesters, relay a snippet of gossip to the regulars, or commence with an explosion of obsequious brashness to the odd wealthy patron - a scenario which has not presented itself to date, but one for which he holds out much hope, and occasionally even practices in conveying exactly the right aura of sycophancy in the event of such an occasion arising. As a remarkably well-off immigrant from the North Americas, he came to England in the hope of achieving even greater heights of fortune – and proceeded to lose that which he already owned with prompt alacrity. The gaming house, _Bandits, _was his darling, his brainchild – and, for all that, an incredibly incompetent business manoeuvre. London's labyrinthine streets are littered with countless others of its ilk; Keith's lacks the distinction of being the best, or the worst.

Far be it from Anzu to berate anyone for following a dream. But why _his _became so brutally entangled with _hers _is beyond her powers of explanation or comprehension.

Tentatively, she begins to walk again. The empty glasses and plates piled on the crowded tray she clutches sway dangerously. Awkwardly, with small steps – yet perfect posture – she exits the hall, and teeters into the kitchen, ready to half-heartedly sling its contents into a tub of lukewarm water, and sluice off the worst of the stains.

One could, if one was feeling particularly generous, define working as a waitress in _Bandits _as a highly specialised variety of balancing act, thus qualifying it as a particularly depressing form of dancing. Yet despite this encouraging feat of logic, Anzu feels further from her dream than when she was still sewing buttons onto badly-starched shirts.

A globule of dishwater lands on her skirt, leaving a greasy blemish. Facing the truth – she is floundering.

D—n it all.

**xXx**

_Bandits _is quite possibly the filthiest, most depressingly mediocre gaming house of which Mai has ever had the misfortune to cross the threshold. It does not even have the grace to be redeemably glamorous; there is nothing edgy or dangerous about this setting, although this is clearly what it strives to achieve. The unprepossessing exterior betrays no hidden wonders – merely more of the same tedium and disrepair. The lighting is dim because they cannot afford candles, not for any atmospheric purposes; the drinks all have the same, distinctive flavour of distilled paint varnish (Mai wonders briefly why paint varnish is cheaper than alcohol, but decides she does not care enough to ponder the question any more deeply); every single card in every single deck has been marked by some attempted cheater or other, sometimes more than once, thus rendering even _fraud_ a virtual impossibility.

Here, the incurably pathetic dredge themselves and their desolate thoughts to a grime-streaked booth, slurp from smeary, mismatched mugs and toss graying dice with a mechanical apathy. Here, one does not so much decay spectacularly as gradually shrivel.

Oh, and the waitress scowls.

"I do wonder whether the name of this hellhole is supposed to mean 'bandits' plural, or just lacks an apostrophe," she murmurs to her companion. "Do you suppose Keith is exaggerating, or simply illiterate?" It is as pertinent a query as any. And as pointed a jibe as she will allow herself.

"Point of five, my dear," he replies, both unperturbed and unresponsive.

She glances at the fraying cards in her hand. "Making?"

"Thirty nine." The words themselves seem sleek with arrogance. Yes, they practically drip with it. Metaphorically, they are sodden.

"Not good: forty two," she says, feeling a stab of satisfaction at the small victory. "But this is irrelevant. We came here to discuss the possibility of a deal, not to play. No use having this as cover, if all we do is what we _appear_ to be doing."

A sidelong glance from thickly-lashed green eyes. "That made very little sense." He sniffs – once, delicately – and turns his attention back to his hand, sifting meditatively through the cards.

"Otogi." He is slipping away. She should never have suggested piquet. Now he has abandoned all interest in employment, caring only for his most immediate objective: winning the game. By all rights, she ought to deliberately lose and make an end of this tortuous preliminary, but that is not the way Mai operates, as a rule. Chiefly because it is methodologically clumsy. Accept minor losses along the way to a greater objective, and defeat becomes the norm.

Also – it would be humiliating beyond belief.

They continue to play to the end of the hand. Abstractedly, she wonders at her companion's choice of venue. He will forever deal in dark hallways and hideous dens, amidst the perpetually drunk and terminally tedious; bankrupt gambling addicts, scowling waitresses and all. One might suspect in him a counter-intuitive sort of vanity. For the best beauty lies in contrast, and in comparison to his habitual surroundings, he is dazzling indeed. Dazzling, that is, for an overgrown child who deals in tawdry conjuring tricks.

Mai wins. Graciously, her opponent concedes control of the conversation, as penalty.

She immediately takes the opportunity to inject business into the frivolity. "Focus, Otogi. I've got a job for you. Profile: high. Difficulty: diabolical. Reward money: extortionate. Any questions?"

With the game drawn to an unfavourable close, his expression dulls, as though only the immediacy of challenge is enthralling enough to induce him to lift the veil. It has resolved itself into that placid sardonicism, utterly unfazed: all surrounding events rendered peripheral.

"Just the one," he says, amused, deftly shuffling the deck once more. "Who do you want me to find for you?"

"The two greatest thieves in all Kemet," she answers, with some relish.

And lo, the eyes _glitter. _

**xXx**

The door is oak, and heavy to push. Honda traces the sleek edge of the varnish, once, before entering - like a ritual. It creeks, once, in response.

This will be his first big job – first time that he will not be in the pay of some lowlife political hanger-on. His new employee is, for once, the genuine article, with genuine power and an equally authentic target, no doubt. Rising up through the ranks of that covert circle of the London underworld is about to pay off – in the sense of both cash _and _prestige...

But right now, in the dim, sharply delineated hallway, he savours the taste of that one, soft instant before the door slides wide enough to accommodate him. Subtle illumination greets him along with the figure at the desk. Foolishly, he lingers in the doorway, unprepared, partially aware that he does not exactly exude the requisite amount of confidence for his calling. Deliberately, he straightens, forcing his shoulders to drop and his arms to relax. He must display all the effortless grace of a professional: technically flawless, and yet flawlessly unconcerned. There is a knack to concealing all outward effort.

Think lightness. Lightness and swiftness. Balance.

"Come on in," says Maximilien Pegasus.

**xXx**

Hugging his coat around him tightly, Atem haunts the streets of London: a shade, cloak stirred by a soft breeze. His characteristically recognisable hair is tucked neatly beneath a silky black hat, which is as immaculate as the rest of his outfit. He must display wealth and taste, Mana had said, but nothing too distinctive. Then she had set about dressing him, marvelling at the vast array of Albian suits available from London's finest tailors. Atem had not had the heart to complain about her definition of 'distinctive', nor tell her that he had an ample wardrobe of his own. He is a little more grateful now; Mana's choice of a thick black overcoat keeps out the worst of the autumn chill. Lends him the dubious gift on anonymity.

Around him, London sleeps beneath muted lamplight, and the only thing that is alien about the scene is Atem himself: tonight, he is a trespasser. London is his – was his – but now he must lurk in its shadows like a criminal, biding his time. The subtle glow of streetlights eschews him; the dried husks of fallen leaves skitter anxiously past his feet. He could snarl in frustration at how powerless he has become, but to what end? His annoyance is useless; his very existence is negation.

He casts his eyes fervidly about his surroundings in search of more pleasant thoughts. When he spares it a glance, Atem finds the city as beautiful as ever. Its thriving underbelly is safely stowed in streets further towards the docks, and on these cobbles, there is some semblance of safety. Rhythm in the familiar, clattering _clump _of foot against stone. Atem has led a life perpetually sheltered - perhaps more than necessary. Freedom to roam the wealthier half of London, with its streets absorbing the soft luminescence of the stars, and the mellow breeze, reflective of its own drowsy air of contentedness, is a small blessing no matter how enclosed the area itself may be.

_Paradise _is a word meaning _walled garden. _

Treading gently past darkened, featureless buildings, Atem decides that, maybe just maybe, being confined to his city is not such a terrible fate. He will meld with the shadows: an unobtrusive strand of being, at one with the streets which shun him. Besides, should he be patient, he will see _him_ eventually. _Him_: the other half of Atem's soul, without whom he is lost, a shadow of himself. He is the king, and a fine one, at that. A gem yet uncut, more alive and more perfect than Atem - flawed as he is - could ever aspire to be. Circumstances may have changed, but his loyalty is undying – London is the key to his ultimate goal of aiding the boy king. Of aiding Yugi.

**xXx**

Light seeps through the cracks of Ryou's eyelids, and he notices absently that he is breathing – a discovery which is mildly odd to him. His surroundings consist of fuzzy, bright shapes, which elicit a piercing pain somewhere behind his eyes. He lets his eyelids sink again. With strange detachment, it occurs to him that either he is still alive, and being held captive by the gentlemen from before - or in Duat, awaiting judgement. Overall, the soft comfort of darkness seems far preferable to enlightenment on this account.

Ryou finds enough concern in his battered mind to hope that he is not in Duat. He is unsure of whether stealing a pocket watch counts as a major crime, but it weighs heavily on his heart nonetheless - as does his fear - and he is terrified of being consumed, and of the dense, black emptiness which heralds second death, of eternally wandering-

"So, demon child. You're awake." The words seem somehow sluggish, the crisp intonation of the speaker obscured by Ryou's hearing, which weariness seems to have deteriorated. He tries once more to lift his eyelids, and the second attempt yields slightly more success than the first. He is lying down, he surmises – yes, definitely lying - and his head is cushioned by something soft. He is – with considerable effort, he tries to straighten his vision back into focus - on some sort of bed, or perhaps a couch. A piece of furniture, at the very least – one in a rather tasteful shade of forest green. Green, vivid green – it has been longer than he imagined since he has been confronted by any colour save brown, or gold, or gray... or the violet of his saviours' eyes.

Beyond the couch: wooden walls. Against all reason, small, erratic tremors appear to run through them – or perhaps that is simply the deceptive effect of Ryou's glazed vision. Also windows, large and expansive, through which countless rays of light filter, searing his eyes.

"Awake, and mute, apparently. That could be amusing, no?" Above him hover the faint outlines of two people – the gentlemen. So he is alive, then, for certain. The realisation startles him into action; he attempts to sit, but ends up doubled over, his body racked with agonising coughs. They cause his ribs to shudder, with an unpleasant force that sets his teeth on edge, and when he finally rises, he is mildly surprised that there is no blood adorning his hands. No telltale signals of vitality, then; he pictures himself, a colourless wraith on these rich nobles' vivid green sofa.

"I- I- not mute. I-" he chokes, and splutters for a second, his throat raw and cracked. For how long has he been saved? From what he can tell, he will not last the night – no, no, morning, it is morning, he has _lasted _the night, oh gods - and that means that he must tell them – absolutely _must_ tell them – not to let him disappear.

"Interesting." The voice is addressed to him, but not. The clipped phrases seem to be spoken for the benefit of his companion more than Ryou. It fades in once more, snide and detached: "_You've_ been awfully quiet, Marik. I don't suppose you've been hit by the gravity of our situation and decided to dump the wretch overboard?"

Ryou scarcely registers the meaning – and when he does, somehow he is not afraid. Perhaps it is all just too melodramatic to be believed.

"Oh, absolutely," chimes in a second voice. "You take his feet; I'll take his arms. See if we can hit any passersby on the way down."

"Stop being tetchy. It doesn't become you," says the sterner one, irritated.

"Tetchy? Who says? I'm serious. Ten points for hitting a nobleman; five for a slave." Pause. "Seven for a tortoise."

Ryou realises his mouth is slightly parted, and shuts it. He must make it clear. His existence is at stake! Oh, won't they _understand?_ Again, he is foiled by his own body, and his lungs give way before he can breathe. All he manages is a faint stammer which, even to his own ears, sounds terrifyingly inhuman.

The first man – the taller, sterner, paler individual – approaches, looming solidly over Ryou's line of vision. "Don't die on the chaise lounge. It was expensive." The grin is almost audible. "Not that we paid."

Ryou struggles once more, and somehow, miraculously, accesses a small, unused pocket of strength which he uses to force out the crucial words. "I- I'm going to… disappear. Please, please help me. I don't know who you are, but-"

"Excuse me?" The man sighs, gustily, clashing a palm to his forehead. The motion triggers a flicker of recognition in Ryou's preoccupied memory. "Oh, what faith we must inspire."

The second voice pushes through once more; lower, choppier, not so languid. "Bakura, he could easily die. Have you felt his forehead? He's running a monstrous fever. He's shivering. And that cough sounds appalling." The plosive sounds hit Ryou like darts, each one momentarily snapping him out of his spreading fatigue.

"This was your idea, brat. Deal with it."

"_Bakura!_"

"Please… Help me…" But they are not listening. Both are so preoccupied with their bickering, they barely take note of him. The Kemetic man has the grace to seem dismayed by his partner's dispassion, at least.

"We're getting to that," says the first man – Bakura? – abstractedly. Apparently Ryou's pleas have been dismissed to the back of the queue, in favour of more pressing concerns, such as arguing with his companion and - or so it seems - panicking.

"Bakura, I have no idea how to help a dying street urchin. How does one _help_ a dying street urchin?" The Kemetic man paces vehemently, cape fluttering out behind him, one finger thoughtfully tapping the side of his cheek. The swiftness of his movement makes Ryou dizzy; he darts into view, then out, then in... "Presumably by supplying adequate food and water, but what does _adequate_ entail? Hmm?" _And out, and in, and out, and he's speaking..._

"Fear not," says Bakura, readily, with an alacrity that jolts Ryou out of his brief reverie. "I am an expert on the matter."

The Kemet – _Marik, he is named Marik_ - comes to a halt. "You _are_?"

"…No." Marik gives a hiss of frustration, and Bakura responds with a helpless grin. "Water. We need water." _Oh, water. Yes. Please get me some water. _

Marik folds his arms. "Oh, so what should I do while you fetch some? Let him rupture his left lung?"

"He appears to be attempting communication. Listen to his dying wishes, if you must. Or, rather, lend an ear to his death rattle." Bakura shrugs. "Either way."

As Ryou sputters, Bakura departs, presumably in search of water. Ryou reflects how, admittedly, his rescuers are proving increasingly unsatisfactory. Yet. That does not matter so long as he can induce them to do the one thing that might secure his akh's safe departure to the next world.

Marik moves closer, and kneels next to the couch. He rests a tentative hand over Ryou's chest, stilling the hitherto interminable coughs. "Say what you will, demon child. Slowly. And try to breath during necessary intervals."

Ryou takes a hasty gulp of air. "I'm… dying. I am, no matter what you do." The corner of Marik's mouth twists sceptically upwards, but he presses on. "And when I die, there won't be anything left." Ryou pauses, taking another shuddering breath. "If my name doesn't survive, I'll die _again_."

Marik, whose face has melted into what might be considered a harassed sort of compassion, looks more than a little bewildered. Ryou lacks the energy to explain. No matter, for a moment later, realisation floods his features. He winces. "Ah. You must understand, I have been travelling with a companion who is - for want of a better term – godless, for the past four years. Largely, I tend towards his beliefs – or lack thereof. I'll admit I am not as familiar with the Kemetic religion as I should be."

Godless? "How can you not know - oh, it doesn't matter! My name! I can't... survive in the next world unless my name is- unless it - my throat…"

As he gags, Ryou notes wryly that there is indeed now blood on his hands. Colour, too little, too late. It glistens in the morning glow as he attempts to quell the nausea which inevitably follows. Fortunately, the second man, Bakura, reappears in the door, holding a tray. It is silver, and the cup and plate that rest on it are china - something that Ryou has occasionally seen being imported from some distant Albian colony. Yes - it came in sleek, alien airships, piloted by pale, uncomfortable looking traders. Only the most beautiful of tableware for a dying man.

Gingerly, Marik lifts the delicate cup to Ryou's chapped lips. He finds it surprising that china is freezing cold – not that he has ever come into contact with the material before. The water trickles sloppily down his chin, and somehow he feels desperately unclean, but a few droplets land on his tongue and they moisten his parched throat. Draining the rest of the liquid, he begins to speak again. Revitalised, but croaky: "If my name doesn't survive, the rest of my soul will die. I'll die twice. Please… please help me."

The giddiness from before has inexplicably subsided, but Ryou still feels the floor jerk beneath him. Could they – could they be in the air...?

"Calm down. You won't die if we can help it," says Marik, soothingly.

"Please!"

"I say we indulge him, Marik," says Bakura, setting the tray down carelessly on a glass-plated table, with an audible click. "So, wretch, what must we do?"

"Remember my name - _please_. If you can write it, or carve it, it will survive."

Bakura nods, gravely, seemingly prepared to shoulder this solemn duty. A slight, almost awkward pause. Then: "What _was_ your name again?"

"It's Ryou." Oh _gods..._

"Damn, how's that spelled?" Bakura glances at his partner.

"Oh, right, of course _I_ would know; _I'm_ Kemetic," Marik bites back, snappishly. Ryou can still feel the heat of his touch, like a comforting emblem. His words, by contrast, are... not entirely comforting.

Bakura rolls his eyes. "I was being rhetorical. Oi, wretch, how do we spell your name? You hardly want the anchor of your immortal soul to be a misspelling. Unless your religion requires _that_, too."

Ryou's world sinks, slightly. With a sudden rush of impending doom, he realises that he cannot possibly be saved. "I don't know," he admits, pathetically.

Bakura – always less sympathetic - seems incensed by this discovery. "You spend twenty minutes sputtering. Twenty minutes splattering blood on our furniture. Twenty damn minutes convincing us of the dire _importance_ of your final words, only to tell us that you are illiterate. How very unpredictable. That's it, Marik, he's going down over the Sahara. I could not care less about exotic slave boys to dress up and dote on. Bid your _demon_ child farewell."

During the tirade, Marik begins to stand, unamused. "Two syllables are hardly beyond your power. Improvise on the spelling. That is, if you've finished your tantrum."

Bakura opens his mouth. He seems on the verge of launching into another outburst. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he stops. Apparently the tantrum has indeed been drawn to a close. Fuming a little, he begins to storm out of the room and – pauses. His anger has evaporated with all the speed of desert rain, giving way to something newer, stranger. An inscrutable, curling smile. "We don't need to aim for accuracy. How about something extra?"

Before his companion can respond, he is animated, striding across the room to rummage through a desk drawer. Ryou can just make him out from the edge of his vision, gathering up a pot of ink and parchment, flourishing a pen. For a moment, he scribbles. Then, with the tense air of a threatened panther, he strides across the room, ending up somewhere behind Ryou, who wonders if anything that is happening conforms to logic or reason.

A tap on his shoulder. He jumps.

Looming over him, face a passive mask, Bakura sets the sheet on Ryou's chest. They stare at each other, Bakura's eyes probing, drilling into him, but drained of hostility; Ryou's plaintive gaze fixed on the less benevolent of his saviours. With a sudden, impatient movement, Bakura looks away. "Don't die," he says. "I don't want to have to carve that on the _Diabound's_ hull if I don't have to."

Squinting, Marik twists his head to read the scrawled phrase– an impenetrable maze of black ink, to Ryou. Apparently it is rather inaccessible to Marik also, for it takes him a handful of seconds to register its meaning. When he does, his eyes widen, first in rounded shock, and then crinkled in amusement.

"Don't say it," mutters Bakura, flatly.

"…_You're_ going sentimental."

"Damn it, Marik, when I told you not to say it-"

"What does it say?" Both halt, their conversation disturbed by its own subject. Bakura gives a half-hearted, lopsided sort of smile, partially mirth and mostly confusion. Marik replies for him, in a tone by no means free from wryness, but not lacking in warmth:

"_Ryou Bakura_."

**xXx**

**Extra Notes: **

**- I'm assuming all YGO readers will know the whole different-parts-of-the-soul spiel back to front by now? Well, if not, suffice to say that if Ryou's name is not remembered, according to the Kemetic religion, his soul will disappear. Technically it ought to be his body that is preserved, first and foremost (hence mummification), but he doesn't have **_**that **_**much faith in the thieves; the name works too, according to some texts. Marik and Bakura take an astonishingly long time to grasp this key tenet, chiefly because they are godless heathens. *Nods earnestly*. **

**- North America is very firmly under Albian rule. Part of the alternate history stems from the fact that America did not win the War of Independence; it was quashed quite early on. Probably due to England having superior steam technology, and thus, superior weapons. Hence, England has managed to retain a phenomenal amount of its Empire, alongside conquering vast swathes of Europe. France, incidentally, is one of the only independent nations in the area. This shall become more relevant later. For now, it's fun trivia. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Recap: Aspiring ballet dancer Anzu Mazaki is working for Keith, an immigrant from the American colonies, in a dilapidated gaming house known as **_**Bandits. **_**Mai Kujaku is conducting a business meeting with bounty hunter Otogi in the same location, requesting that he bring the two greatest thieves in Kemet to justice. Honda has landed a rather dubious job with nobleman Maximilien Pegasus. Atem wanders the streets of London, resolving to help Yugi. Meanwhile, on board the **_**Diabound, **_**Ryou wakes. Half dying, he demands that the thieves remember his name in order to preserve his soul. Bakura goes a step further, and gives Ryou his own as a surname. Bringing us to...**

**xXx**

"_Marik – if you don't want your new pet to expire, I'd seriously suggest actually _trying _to salvage him. You could fix him up good as new – better – if you wanted. No, don't look at me like that; I'm only saying what we're both thinking_."_ Practical and measured. _

"_Do you honestly believe I'd hold back if I could save him without ramifications? How – Bakura, how could you even suggest -?" Appalled. _

"_Gods, that sounded pompous." _

_Something snaps. "Shut_ up_." _

"_What could really be the worst to happen, hmm?" Silky and beguiling. _

"_You _know _what could happen. I haven't used that kind of alchemy since... I don't know what it might do! Before – trust me, it would have been easy - but now?" Hysterical crack in a faltering voice. _

"_Shh. Breathe slowly. Calm down. Stop being pathetic." Faint laughter elicited. "You know I'll handle it, whatever happens."_

_Timid anxiety, like a voice from a void. "And if it's permanent?"_

"_Don't be moronic; you're stronger than _that. _Not that you look like it, currently." Careless, disdainful glance. _

_Defiant flicker of the eyes. "All right. All right! I'll do it. I'll save him." A pause. "And then, just so you know, I think I might then strangle you." _

**xXx**

_Bandits _is more or less locked out to the light, but a glance through the smeared kitchen window betrays that night has fallen, and, accordingly, Anzu's shift is nearing its completion. Just a few more minutes, by her estimate. Small mercies and all that. Smaller pay, for that matter, but what has quantification to do with anything? Daily life is resoundingly hollow when pieced together like clockwork and perpetuated by schedule – and, admittedly, she longs for just a tiny bit of aimlessness. Nonetheless, she reflects, there is certain satisfaction to be found in a plate scraped clean and shelved; a drink served; a task completed. Momentary - but for all that, it amounts to quite a pleasant moment.

For now, she itches to get home.

She approaches a table in the sparser corner of the room, accommodating two slender figures in matching cloaks. The usual clientele have all but dispersed, and the somewhat dulled attention of those still remaining is uniformly devoted to their game of choice. By contrast, these two confer with an air of purpose. Subtle, dark and streamlined, they could not look more mysterious if they tried. Like two very large, very incongruous black crows. Her curiosity is inevitably piqued; never have two people looked as though they have more to hide. They epitomise the aura of mystique that _Bandits _fails so stupendously to cultivate. She moves nearer, treading softly for fear of inviting their attention. They titter, and toss their heads, and let the cards lie unnoticed where they are strewn. So far, this particular surreptitious dance is a success, for there is no sign of motion from either hooded head. They converse in murmurs; she cannot distinguish particular words – only that one voice (lower, more sibilant) carries a detached air of calm and something approaching the possibility of irony, whereas the second (higher, more insistent in intonation) is lively and authoritative. There is a suggestion of the preternatural to the two, cloaked and cryptic as they are. Anzu remains still, daring to approach no further, straining to make some sense of the patter of syllables.

Then, the unprecedented occurs. The one figure – owner of the first voice – rises to leave, taking a few gentle steps towards the door. The second turns a head upwards to face him, and in doing so, the hood slips loose, revealing half the face. Anzu realises it is a _woman_ – young, and to her mind, almost unsettlingly beautiful. Confusedly, she registers a jumble of features that seem to dazzle: bright cheeks; angular eyes; a firmly set mouth painted mesmerizingly crimson. A panicked flicker of eyelashes alerts Anzu to the fact that she has been spotted. Something in the corner of her mind mouths frantically that she ought to duck out of the way, or at the very least make some pretence of looking in the other direction – but she is pinned, and blind to its panicked gesticulations.

The first figure remains unaware of the eavesdropper. Leaning closer to his companion, he whispers: "Until next time, Lady Kujaku. By then, I swear I shall have completed your impossible task." He kisses her fingers, with considerable grace. Seemingly ignoring the glare of exasperation provoked by his words, he brushes past Anzu in a sweep of cape, leaving her frozen and panicked in its breeze.

Before her sits Lady Mai Kujaku – the King's Regent.

In a gaming house.

In _Keith's _gaming house.

All of a sudden, Anzu's world contains far less logic than it once possessed.

Lady Kujaku tilts her head towards her, birdlike and elegant. She smiles – wide with a touch of mischief – and Anzu feels vaguely criminal. Softly, the King's Regent, _de facto _head of the Albian Empire, beckons her to come forward, with a smooth fluttering of the fingers. Not convinced for a moment that she might have any choice in the matter, Anzu obeys, stepping closer until they are face to cloaked face, and still silent. The air grows oppressively warm; or perhaps it was always oppressive – suffice to say that is now stifling.

"You won't tell, will you?" the lady whispers, expression alight with what seems to be amusement.

Anzu hastily stifles the automatic _no, of course not_ which lies half-formed on her lips. Instead, in an act of unwarranted daring, she says, evenly: "What if I do?" _Do not let this intriguing woman leave. Do not let this entire, exceptional experience reach so abrupt an end._ Say _anything. _

Lady Kujaku's grin expands in delighted surprise. "I'd imagine no-one would believe you. Not sure if I believe the threat, for that matter. Sit down." The latter sentence lies somewhere between invitation and command. But this woman has no need for imperatives. Her very suggestions are laden with tacit authority. Rendered somewhat punch-drunk from shock at her own audacity, Anzu slips obediently into the empty seat so recently vacated by the Regent's accomplice. The cushion still holds a trace of warmth, only compounding the surrealistic quality of the situation. But it barely occurs to her not to comply.

"So my name's been let loose," continues Lady Kujaku, "but yours remains a mystery. Hardly seems fair, hmm?" An anticipatory pause.

Blood flushes Anzu's face. She feels as though she has committed some horrendous _faux pas _– one that goes far beyond eavesdropping. _Confidence, girl. Confidence! _"Anzu," she says, in what she hopes is a firm tone. "I'm Anzu." (Vain hope; her voice is quavering alarmingly.)

Lady Kujaku nods deliberately, pinning Anzu with her eyes as she does so. The intensity is alarming. It is as though she is familiarising herself with Anzu's every feature, mapping the contours of her face with a curious, calculating stare. Anzu feels vulnerable, scrutinised – an experience ominously similar to the audition nerves from which she swore she would never suffer.

"Anzu, then," repeats Lady Kujaku, savouring the name in what seems an almost careless fashion, as one would a rapidly melting chocolate. "But we're far from even. You know one of my secrets; I don't know any of yours." She fixes her with an expectant stare. Harsh, unyielding: a butterfly-pin sort of look – but, somehow devoid of any antagonism; there is only a fervid curiosity. "Care to amend the matter?"

"I-" Anzu hesitates; surely she has countless secrets? Curiously, her mind appears to have emptied itself of all detail. She finds herself grasping at the edges of runaway thoughts, avidly searching for anything to disclose. Snatching at shadows, she emerges empty-handed – save one, fleeting gleam of inspiration, prosaic and insubstantial. Fragment of a child's tale; worthless. "I – always wanted to wear pink," she says, pushing the words through a flurry of indecision. She laughs, slightly, hoping to mask the babyishness with a strand of self-deprecation. "My mother would always... always sew me clothes in navy blue."

Lady Kujaku raises a bemused eyebrow. Yet understanding briefly clouds her face, before amusement shines through once more. "Practical," she says, eyes dancing.

"Exactly," says Anzu, with a small, sad smile. Sad, because she has nothing more convincing to offer.

There is a second's hesitation in which nothing remains to be said. That exchange carried a hideous air of conclusiveness. Her mind races, grabbing desperately at futile ploys to induce the King's Regent to stay, here, like the brilliant flare of light she is – a match struck in the dull surroundings of _Bandits. _Inevitably, she will stand and leave, whisked out of Anzu's sphere as a breath of air extinguishes a flame. No use in praying for fire to be anything but fleeting.

And yet – _though it only postpones the ineluctable conclusion_ – she remains, breaking the silence no less, with an unexpected query: "Do you play cards?"

_Ha! Salvation and despair all at once!_ Anzu hurriedly considers lying, but wisely judges it to be beyond her capabilities. "No. I mean, Mr. Keith tried to teach me, but I can never remember which – no, I just wait tables." And doesn't that just sum up everything there is to know about her, dash it all.

"That's a shame," says Lady Kujaku, but with such an uplifting resonance to her voice that no genuine disappointment seems to register. "We'll try something simple, then. Higher or Lower."

"We – um. Will?" Punch-drunk once more, and glad of it.

"That is, if you'd like." Trickle of laughter.

"I – yes?" Anzu is ridiculously grateful that this is her answer, so scattered is her brain that she could have unthinkingly replied 'no' with equal ease.

"I pick a card," says Lady Kujaku. "You guess if the next one will be higher or lower. Self-explanatory enough. Aces are high." She is already shuffling the deck – cards stream from one hand to the other with the practical air of a professional. Like a magician's birds. "If I win, I ask you a question which you must then answer."

"And if _I_ win...?" Anzu wonders if asking entails disrespect. Far be it from her to encroach upon the whims of quasi-royalty. But, somehow, in this particular situation, timidity seems the greater sin. To be boring, above all, would be unforgivable.

"The same," twinkles Lady Kujaku. This said, she plucks a card from the top of the newly shuffled deck. Seven of diamonds.

"... Higher," says Anzu, in faint hope.

Lady Kujaku uncovers the next card. Two of clubs. Anzu is almost relieved, for try as she might, she cannot summon a single question – and furthermore, she is intrigued as to what the King's Regent could possibly wish to ask her, besides perhaps _please would you leave me in peace? _

"Truth or justice, Anzu?"

Unexpected, that. Not that she had been expecting anything in particular. Anzu is left disorientated, but determined to keep up. _Think. Think NOW. _How can justice be built on lies – or truth built on injustice, for that matter? Tautology. It is too tautological for words. "Can you have one without the other?"

"Probably not." Careless toss of the chin. "Choose anyway."

"Truth," decides Anzu, firmly.

"Interesting." Another smile. Anzu is beginning to covet those sudden sparks of – of what? – approval – amusement? "Higher or lower?"

"Higher."

Five of spades.

"Your turn," says Lady Kujaku. "Oh – one rule. No state secrets."

"Right," agrees Anzu, who is scarcely inclined to ask – lacking the knowledge of what asking would even _entail. "_Lady Regent... how did you end up _here_?"

"Airship," she answers, promptly. Her earnest expression gives way to fluttering ripples of laughter. "Hard luck, Anzu. Desired answer falls under 'state secrets'. Nothing thrilling, I'm afraid; quite run-of-the-mill, as a matter of fact; nonetheless secret."

Anzu makes a not-disappointed sound, somewhere between an 'oh' and an 'um'. Then: "Higher or lower?" she asks, boldly placing a hand on the top card.

"Ah – my turn to guess, I presume?" she asks, pleasantly.

Anzu flushes once more; she had forgotten that _she _was the one who ought to be guessing. The presumptionis clearly hers, not Lady Kujaku's. Well – no matter; her companion hardly seems annoyed. She seems, in fact, almost satisfied. Indeed, Anzu was correct in judging that confidence would count far more in her favour than hesitancy.

"Higher, then."

Ten of diamonds.

Lady Kujaku's teeth glint as they peek out from behind her victorious smile. "Can peace ever be truly secured where there once was conflict?"

And again – unexpected. Yet Anzu is growing wise to her game. This amounts to very subtle, very inconsequential exploitation. Lady Kujaku is not patronising her, exactly, but she is hardly treating her as an equal. She poses deep, difficult questions not for the purpose of confounding her, but seemingly out of a desire to pluck some small, profound crystal out of simplicity. Anzu is expected to answer with all the touching lightness and depth of an inexperienced commoner – uneducated, innocent, yet somehow mature.

This is not a game with which she feels obliged to comply.

"Yes," she answers, firmly. Almost teasingly, she refuses to go any further.

Lady Kujaku shoots her an inquiring look.

"Oh," says Anzu, slyly. "I thought I was supposed to answer the question, not elaborate."

A momentary glance of perplexity, which is almost more satisfying than those slow smiles. It swiftly dissipates, though. "Higher or lower?" asks Lady Kujaku, still swathed in calm, despite the disruption. There is nonetheless a combative edge to her voice, not present before.

"Higher," says Anzu. It is perverse, and against the odds, and she is aware of all of this.

Five of hearts.

"Elaborate," says Lady Kujaku. After transient confusion, the smile has regained its triumphant seat upon her face.

Anzu pouts. "All right. How about this? Nothing can't be repaired. Everything can change. I don't see why anything has to leave a scar. So war ends when it ends – it doesn't have to haunt you forever." A pause. "Higher or lower?"

**xXx**

When Ryou wakes again, he is alone. Unsure as to whether this is a blessing or a curse, he chooses to evaluate his surroundings. The walls of the room rumble in time to the murmur of the – engine. Yes, the engine. A quick glance about confirms his suspicions: the broad windows display endless stretches of feathered clouds, flitting ethereally past. Curiosity overwhelms the giddy mists of his sickness, and, peeling off a thin, cotton sheet (he does not remember being covered by a sheet, but does not question it overmuch), he plants his bare feet firmly onto the ground. Which promptly judders. Yes. Yes, they are certainly midair; if the clouds were not enough to justify the surmise, the turbulence certainly is.

The room is spacious, for an airship. That said, this is scarcely noticeable for all the myriad clutter. Various possessions lie scattered amidst a framework of mismatched furniture: countless chairs, grand in isolation, but the sum of which succeeds only in gaudiness, dot the area – a startling clamour of cerulean, gold embroidery, fuchsia, lapis lazuli. An oak desk stands solitary on chipped legs, at the corner of the room, beneath the window. Incongruously adorning the opposite corner is a baby grand piano, with the grace at least to look thoroughly abashed at its own decadence; the crimson scarf draped across its surface may as well denote a blush. The walls are speckled with an excessive amount of mirrors of varying sizes, frames and styles; the floors are strewn with bright, intricate rugs differing to the same degree. Lining the edges of the room, with all the severity of an armed vanguard, a forest appears to have been felled, pared down and printed into tremendous stacks of books, all thick, battered and insubordinately unshelved.

Standing, he staggers a little.

Ryou had yearned to move closer to the window - to see the open sky – but a single shaky footstep convinces him not to leave the comfort of his seat. He allows himself to sink back onto the couch, the red sheet crumpling under him. They must have put it on him as he slept. Ryou doubts his saviours swept him off the streets out of some notion of _altruism_. He knows that there is no such thing, having spent far too long haunting the slums of Egypt's capital. He has seen many men like Marik and Bakura, parading their opulence with all the haughtiness of shrieking vultures. All have passed him by, scarcely pausing to exhibit disdain at the starving waif blocking the pavement.

"_Don't die on the chaise lounge. It was expensive. …Not that we paid."_

The blood in his head pounds against the corners of his eyes, and Ryou swallows a wave of nausea. _Oh, Gods. _If he is to survive, he must think. He has unwittingly stumbled into a den of thieves, and miles of freezing air separate him from both an unpleasant end and freedom. And, frankly, his situation is unpleasant regardless. But he has no intention of plunging to his death – _think, damn it...!_

How quickly saviours become captors.

A thread of a murmur tugs at the corner of his consciousness, and Ryou realises that his hearing has improved since he last awoke. Indeed - perhaps he _misheard_ Bakura. The two gentlemen are merely that: two capricious gentlemen and nothing more, on an extended tour of the Kemetic Empire. It is not entirely improbable – indeed, it is wholly explicable - and it certainly makes Ryou feel better about the entire situation. Yes, they are probably well-intentioned nobility - if extremely inept - and will set him down where they found him as soon as they realise that he is awake. No doubt Ryou will be back to dying quietly before the week is out. All is good with the world.

Focussing once more on the sound, Ryou locates its source: a door to his left. It is accompanied by the agonising scent of something rich and sweet and _edible_. That, in itself, rouses him out of his stupor and, clutching at first the edge of the chaise lounge (or whatever strange name Bakura used to describe the asymmetrical and mildly uncomfortable piece of furniture) and, subsequently, the corner of the desk, Ryou drags himself across the room. Pausing in his valiant attempt to traverse a distance of a few steps, he forces air into his lungs. It aches a little, but he feels better than he was, at the very least. Almost well enough to stand without the aid of the desk.

As his world slips inexorably sideways, Ryou reflects that 'almost' is a frustratingly apt description.

The sounds are louder, now. Strands of conversation and the neat tapping of cutlery.

"Tch – no need to treat that as if you've just slaughtered it yourself. Watching you eat bacon is enough to make anyone sick." Lilting derision.

"Mmph. Bacon which _you_ overcooked." Words muffled by unappreciative mastication.

Breezily: "What can I say? Domesticity doesn't suit me. Besides, you'd eat it rawif you had your own way."

"_Work _doesn't suit you, brat."

An emphatic scrape of metal on china. The slippery rustle of thin paper.

"Anything of note?" This, from the lively, less disgruntled speaker.

"How should I know? You stole the front page." More from the gruff, _highly_ disgruntled one.

"No – you've got it – oh. Oh, wait."

"You noticed, did you?"

"Noticed? How could I have - Bakura, you never told me my sisterhas been made Ambassador to England!" Bizarre compound of anguish and pride.

"I didn't mean... wait, what?" Confusion from Bakura, who had clearly been referring to the page itself, not the contents.

"Ishizu..." This does nothing to dissuade the wistfulness in the other's tone.

"Gods help us all; someone put another Ishtar in power... if she's anything like you, they'll be at war with Kemet before you can say 'unfortunate _faux pas_; five dead; six wounded'."

"Don't you _dare _do the mocking thing, Bakura – not about Ishizu –"

Ryou inches towards the open doorway, now clutching at the wall. Teetering gently, he manages to propel himself forwards until a slice of the kitchen scene is visible, although of his rescuers he can see nothing. The edge of a wooden dining table. Silhouette of a modern gas stove. A cluster of mismatched chairs, ranging from the spindly to the ornate. It is all slightly too bright for the sensitive eye.

He listens.

"Wouldn't dream of even mentioning your relatives, let alone committing the cardinal sin of _describing _them. Or, gods forbid, extrapolating."

"Bakura, you know what is likely to earn you a knife in the head, currently?" Silky, courteous and deadly.

"... Pursuing the subject?" An _audible _smirk.

Strict reply: "Well done. And you know what's in order now?"

"_Change _of subject?" Barely suppressed laughter. Of the mocking variety.

Another rustle of paper, presumably elicited by an expansive hand gesture on the part of Marik. "What can I say? The man's a genius."

"Oh, so the new subject is my genius?"

A worryingly loud and lengthy crash. It seems that Marik has been provoked into assault.

Ryou slides soundlessly down the wall, assaulted by an unexpected glimmer of memory. _A clumsy, shaking hand, pushing a beaker of water past his lips; thick, wet cold which burns. As it spills slightly over his chin, as the ship jolts and the hand trembles, he reflects that Marik is quite possibly the most incompetent nurse in all of existence. Yet when his eyelids part to admit a slither of light, he notes that the hand is not dark – or warm – but cool and pale. _

His eyes snap open, and he finds that he is seated – half sprawled, as a matter of fact – at the side of the doorway. The sounds of the spat have faded, and seemingly all is at peace within the kitchen – or, as per Ryou's early assessment, the more cheerful, harmless side to the perpetual war. The conversation has resumed with such ease that one could hardly believe the violent interruption had ever taken place.

"So apparently His Reverence, Osiris in Flesh Appearance, the Great, Royal Pharaoh Mahaado has announced that he's sending his High Priestess to London, heart of the Albian Empire, along with my sister. Strengthening relations between two once-warring powers, or something equally inexplicable. Trying to hash out a peace treaty, no less. Guess Albion and Kemet are really taking the whole 'not tearing each other to pieces' resolution seriously. Or trying to project the veneer of doing so, which in terms of foreign policy probably amounts to the same thing."

"Careful - I don't think you injected enough disdain into that address," chuckles Bakura.

"You think? Damn. Next time I'll just have to stick with His Royal Bastard, Embodiment of Osiris' Arsehole, Fucking _Pharaoh _Mahaado just to make it obvious..."

Cheerful, predatory delight: "Language, Marik! Wouldn't want to corrupt the sensitive ears of our new pet, after all. Gods, he eavesdrops almost as skilfully as he thieves..."

Ryou flinches. Beneath his feet, a floorboard creaks guiltily. He wonders if they will stab him now, or just toss him over the side of the deck. On the plus side: freedom beckons. On the negative side is virtually every other factor of the scenario.

"Behold, your wife approacheth," says Marik, happily addressing an unimpressed Bakura. "Tea, demon child?"

Ryou remains motionless – unable to respond and unsure as to how he ever could. He can only hope that the fall will be brief – and the impact painless.

"Oi, wretch, are you going to darken our doorstep all day or do you want breakfast?" This coming from the more austere of his rescuers, who ignores Marik's previous comment with a sense of decisiveness.

Perhaps, Ryou reflects, they will poison the bacon. However, his only less fatal alternative to facing his captors is lying back down in a parched, starving heap, so gingerly, he steps forward. The kitchen is much as it first appeared, with light wooden furniture absorbing the steady stream of sunlight provided by a gaping window. Large windows are apparently a recurring theme of this ship; as is the myriad of completely unnecessary furniture.

Bakura and Marik recline at the breakfast table, the former sprawled across the two most ostentatious of their jumble of chairs, each upholstered in creamy silk; the latter curled up on comfortable armchair, knees tucked neatly under his body on the soft orange fabric. Singling out a three legged stool, Ryou takes a few steps, trying not to stumble. Seeing this, Marik appears to wage a brief internal battle between altruism and languor. Evidently, languor wins out, as, though he looks mildly concerned, he does not rise to help.

Ryou perches himself opposite his hosts with no small amount of awkwardness. He sways, slightly. The table is laden with food, though only on their side. Several pots of honey, jam and marmalade vie for space with a large toast rack and two delicate tea cups – all of which Ryou cannot help but find mildly astounding. Seeing his face, Marik shrugs noncommittally. "We weren't sure when you were going to wake up, so we didn't prepare for the occasion. Come to think of it, we weren't entirely sure if you were going to wake up whatsoever." With this alarmingly casual disclosure, he helps himself to a liberal amount of honey; his toast veritably gleams. Then he seems to remember something. "Ah, yes - Bakura will get you a plate and cutlery."

Bakura complies to this indirect command with a glare and a longsuffering sigh. Ryou is only grateful that this does not lead to another bout of casual warfare.

A few seconds later, having had the necessary implements placed before him, Ryou picks up a knife, attempting Marik's delicate grip. It feels heavy and unwieldy, and he cannot quite manage to arrange his fingers in the right way. Assessing the variety of colourful jars on the table, he decides not to even attempt the art of cutlery, and eats his toast dry. Out of all the spreads present, honey is the only one he has ever tasted. Fortunately, his hosts are too busy bickering about politics to take much notice of him. For once, he tunes out their conversation in favour of weighing up the odds of a quick escape.

They looked after him. That alone makes him uneasy, for it belies the kind of concern that might lead to any number of questions. _How old are you? How did you survive before ineffectually attempting to rob us? _Ryou wants to be set back down in Alexandria as soon as possible, and if he answers with any degree of honesty, Marik's altruism may yet again get the better of him. Will Bakura let that happen? Bakura is, after all, an enigma – and changeable beyond words - he seems to act with little regard for social conventions or, indeed, personal morality. (He does not appear to possess morals, personal or otherwise.) If Marik saved Ryou for pity, Bakura did so for amusement, and that worries Ryou more than anything. Gentlemen they may be, but Ryou has no idea as to their intentions. Unsure if he wants to stay on board long enough to find out, he once more resolves to escape as soon as possible – and once more is faced by his depressing lack of a viable plan.

He looks up to find them staring at him intently. They appear completely enraptured, and Ryou cannot help but squirm in his seat.

"Sky blue," Marik breathes.

"No," Bakura ponders, angling the butter knife to the ceiling. He observes the light glint off the handle, with apparent appreciation. "Darker. _Midnight_ blue."

Ryou traces a pattern with a few crumbs on the table, before abruptly realising that this is impolite, and sweeping them onto the floor. He wonders whether it would be best to interrupt, seeing as the conversation seems to have veered dramatically from the initial topic - and certainly not in a direction he would have Bakura and Marik pursue. They seem focussed on _him_.

Resting the knife back on its plate, Bakura rouses himself from his reverie and tilts his head to one side, suppressing a yawn. "What do you think?"

It takes Ryou a moment to realise that he is being addressed. He cringes. "Um, I don't know- I mean- I'm sorry- er… Were you talking about me?"

Marik raises neat eyebrows, which disappear perfectly into his hair. Bakura grins as if he has just spotted unsuspecting prey, and is the first to drawl a response. "Delightful as I find your self-absorption, it is hardly conducive to selecting a colour for your future outfits." He pauses. "Though, yes, I suppose we were talking about you. Try not to daydream so much when it comes to your first heist."

Ryou is not sure whether it is fatigue, or whether the world itself is slipping sideways. The two gentlemen, as he had suspected, are not gentlemen at all. He should have realised immediately. "Heist?"

Bakura's smirk widens even further, though Marik looks a little confused. "What of it?"

"You're… thieves?"

Marik leans back, gently folding his arms. "_Ah, _of course. Yes, I'm afraid _that _particular issue slipped my mind completely. In answer to your question… well…" his brow creases, as though attempting to crush an infinite amount of philosophy into the space of a few inadequate phrases. After a few pauses, he makes his first attempt at verbalising the reply. "In a manner of speaking, we... are." Seriously, he leans forward, resting his chin on a cupped hand. "Although personally, I prefer to think of our profession as that most noble of causes: relieving the wealthy of their greatest burden, and, in doing so, securing its redistribution amongst the deserving - primarily-"

"-Ourselves," finishes Bakura, with satisfaction.

Marik looks rather perturbed. "Bakura," he hisses, "you are giving entirely the wrong impression."

Taking note of this, Ryou finds himself feeling remarkably calm. He was rescued and nursed back to health by a pair of thieves. Successful thieves, given their apparent penchant for (_stolen_) finery. It seems strangely ordinary, although mildly exciting, in a terrifying sort of way.

Now, to the second mystery. "Why were you deciding a colour for my clothes? I have clothes…" Realisation begins to well in his throat, and Ryou quickly swallows it. They cannot possibly be planning to do what he thinks they are planning to do. Itwould be idiocy, and Marik and Bakura hardly seem idiotic. Deadly, capricious and borderline maniacal, yes...

"I suppose that also slipped our minds." Bakura enunciates each word in a way that Ryou suddenly realises is a mockery of Marik's more refined accent, before slipping back into his own voice. "By the way, we're keeping you. Potentially forever. At least until death. Any qualms, wretch?"

Marik, who has been smouldering pointedly since Bakura interrupted him, chooses this moment to speak. "Of course, it's completely your decision."

Ryou opens his mouth to tell them that they are insane. That he is definitely not Ryou Bakura, strange companion of thieves, but merely Ryou, a lowly Egyptian street urchin. That he demands that Marik and Bakura fly back to Alexandria directly and deposit him in exactly the street where they found him, near the dusty and decaying temple of Khonsu, flanked by gods and paupers, slowly dwindling away…

He closes his mouth.

"Not too much to go back to, is there?" says Bakura. Ryou never imagined he would ever find a use for the phrase '_sneeringly sympathetic', _but today _has _been something of a learning experience. "Got a home?"

"No."

"Family?"

"Not in a long time."

"Prospects?"

"Um."

Marik's smile is all sympathy and sunlight, and Bakura seems strangely calm, silhouetted against the kitchen window. With the sky to their backs, they are paragons of freedom, and Ryou finds that he cannot bring himself to question whatever strange twist of fate brought them to him. Thieves they may be, but Ryou notes with some surprise that if he had incurred the wrath of anyone else so wealthy – any powerful Alexandrian at all – he would not be sat recuperating from fever at a table laden with food. For the first time since his abduction, he smiles.

"I think I'll stay."

**xXx**

Hours in, and Anzu has related what is more or less her life story and, to some extent, her personal philosophy, all the while receiving very little information in return. As the cards decrease, she finds herself losing more frequently – and suspects that Lady Kujaku is the much cannier player, mentally keeping track of which numbers have already been played. Anzu, has spoken a great deal – so much so that her throat now grates slightly with every syllable. Keith has remained curiously aloof; constantly, she fears that he will reappear and demand to meet her cloaked companion – though, admittedly, her shift has long since ended - yet he never shows his face. She suspects vaguely that his peculiar absence can be attributed to Lady Kujaku – exactly _how _or _why _is difficult to comprehend. That said, the majority of today's events have scarcely been any easier to process. Though Anzu is fast tiring, Lady Kujaku shows no outward signs of weariness. If anything, she is as lively as before: fresh, lovely and somehow clear-cut; the sharp angles of jaw line, wrists and shoulders sloping, distinct and poised. Crystal set against a blurred haze of background.

"Higher or lower, Anzu?" And her voice cuts cleanly through Anzu's weariness.

"Lower."

"You win." Gentle, now. Soothing.

Anzu pauses to reflect. Regardless of the fact that there is so much she wishes to learn, there is so little she wishes to ask. She want impressions, not facts; there is nothing specific whatsoever – merely an odd, drifting desire to hear this woman talk, with voice both melodious and wryly demure. Preserve the experience. After all, this puzzling gem of a person, who commands the ability to make Anzu feel both gawky and privileged at once, must shortly erase herself from the scene. Ordinary life will resume. _Don't go yet. _"You won't leave yet, will you?" Anzu blurts out, inadvertently.

A tinkling laugh. "Is that your question?"

D—n! That was _not _intended to be audible _in the slightest. _"N-no?"

"Oh. Pity."

_Oh? _

"Y-yes, then?"

Lady Kujaku settles a graceful arm on the table, leaning forwards. A thin cloud of subtle perfume. "Listen to me, Anzu. I know virtually everything there is to know about you."

Anzu makes an indignant noise. She is not as cleanly summarised as all that! All she has provided is an _outline. _An archetype.

"Yes I do," Lady Kujaku insists. "All the rest is probably irrelevant. No – listen! Born in Liverpool, to a family of tailors. One sister who died at eight. Parents promptly expired soon after. Moved to London, in pursuit of fame, fortune – or something of the sort, I'd wager. Demoralising failure. This job, as a result or manifestation thereof. Anything else?"

"_Yes_, actually –!" says Anzu, heatedly.

"Wonderful – I look forward to hearing it on a later occasion."

Anzu deflates, dejected. "You _are _leaving," she murmurs. Ridiculous. She is speaking as though Lady Kujaku ought to feel some sort of obligation_._ Anzu is painfully aware thatfantasies never play out smoothly – if at all. On the rare occasion that they ever begin, they always pursue contrary lines to her pretty lines of thought; she should _know _this.

"Yes, I'm leaving," Lady Kujaku assures her. "You are too."

Anzu's lips frame the word _what, _but never follow through with the requisite audibility.

Lady Kujaku rises. "You are coming with me to the palace," she announces. Gives an imperative tilt of the head, indicating that Anzu ought to stand also,

She is far too bewildered to obey, or to consider obeying. "And... Keith...?"

"Fear not," she laughs. "Not a worry. Follow me."

Anzu prises herself out of the seat. "I'm coming to the palace...?"

"Yes. To live there. No need to bring anything; I'll supply you with clothing, toiletries, etcetera. You don't have any prized possessions, do you? No, you hardly seem the type. In which case, we can leave right away." She displays signs of beginning such movement, whisking her cloak in the direction of the door.

"But – why?"

This arrests her, halfway through one broad, imperious step. She turns to face Anzu. "Why. Argh, _motives. _A question I despise. Suffice to say that the King could use a companion? If that's not convincing, call it a caprice? Choose a reason, Anzu; it's probably halfway correct." She neatly spins and starts towards the door – and Anzu has no choice or inclination but to follow in her wake.

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- In all likelihood, you've noticed that although many of the characters live in England, they all have Japanese names. For obvious reasons, this was unavoidable. Manga purists that we are, we weren't about to use the dub names – and creating new surnames seemed superfluous. So... we're going to ask to activate Spell Card Willing Suspension of Disbelief? **

**- Meanwhile - well, we're finally living up to the summary! Anzu and Ryou have been officially whisked away. And it only took three chapters...! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Previously on **_**Stars From the Gutter...**_

**In a mysterious, imageless scene involving italicised text, Marik is persuaded to use alchemy to save Ryou's life. Anzu has an unexpected confrontation with quasi-royalty in the workplace; Mai Kujaku, the King's Regent challenges her to a rather meandering card game, and ends with the offer of accommodation at Buckingham Palace. Ryou wakes, unexpectedly alive, and interrupts his saviours at breakfast. It soon transpires that said saviours are in fact itinerant thieves. Despite this, Ryou decides to stay. Not that he has altogether much of a choice, as they are currently thousands of feet above the ground, in a rickety dirigible, on the way towards an unknown destination. Which brings us to...**

**xXx**

"…Hence, the rising price of aluminum is a limit on the current TC-700 engine. Naturally, there are two methods of overcoming this setback. The first: to slave for years on end in an attempt to extract a meagre amount of the mineral from rare, high grade ores. The second: to revolutionise aircraft technology itself. To open the gates to a new age, and radically change Kaiba Corporation's approach. Gentlemen, the rumours you heard in Paris pale in comparison to the truth. Observe: the KC-01."

With an imperious wave of his hand, the curtains part, and the crowd gazes on in awe as Seto Kaiba's newest innovation in unveiled. As he had promised, the burnished silver of aluminum seems distinctly absent from his creation – not that the interior is on display. Light glints in the eyes of a hundred wealthier engineers, and somewhere within the immense halls of the Crystal Palace, a sparrow calls. Fine velvet rustles in the light breeze. For a moment, the calls and cheers of the other exhibitions are inaudible, and the majority of the crowd quivers with anticipation. How soon will it be available? When is the KC-02 to be expected?

And yet, a small minority drum their fingers at another suspiciously formulaic Kaiba Corporation engine. Which, from the look of it, is too clunky to operate in any of the new Giffard dirigibles. Kaiba launches into an explanation of pumps and alternative materials and durability at high altitude, and a few members of the audience start to murmur.

Not overly loudly, of course. That would be improper.

The presentation concludes, and a polite ripple of applause passes through the audience – a prelude, of course, to the most significant aspect of the entire event.

"Any questions?"

A roar of hands. Journalists, engineers and mechanics jostle to make themselves seen, eliciting hisses from passersby and the wealthy gloss of noblemen at the back of the crowd, attracted to the third Great Exhibition by the resplendent domes of the Crystal Palace rather than a thirst for technological innovation, shuffle back in contempt.

"Mr Kaiba, sir!" A harried man with a red nose, tanned skin and an accent, who has been listening intently throughout. Colonial – perhaps Australian. "We heard in Paris that your new design would be revolutionary, but it seems to be a modification of the TC-700, at best. The only difference is in production costs, and that was not what was promoted."

Kaiba smiles soothingly, allowing the fool his say. Around him, the glass panels of the Palace inundate the temporary stage with daylight, and behind him, the new engine's dark, coppery exterior seems to glow. Its sheen reflects in the pale, fragile surfaces of many sculptures of Greek gods, each one lovingly replicated for the Palace's reopening. A few questions will hardly be the downfall of him – not here, with even the architecture on his side. He must look like a holy man, preaching to a devoted congregation. Truly, Kaiba's planning was faultless.

"For the benefit those who have never bought, used, manufactured, fixed, developed or laid eyes upon an airship, I would explain the tedious and convoluted process behind obtaining a pound of aluminum, or indeed the expense of the most archaic engine. However, as you appear to be a in minority of one, I deem it unnecessary. I assume this answers the question?" Titters, largely from the back of the crowd. "And one should never believe what one hears in Paris."

In one sentence, Kaiba has them under his thumb. The hall is filled with laughter at every joke he makes, and each snide question from more cynical audience members is shot down in flames. No doubt every one of them will be flying home in a Giffard by the end of the day, but currently, Kaiba could tell them that the King himself was purchasing a dozen KC-01s, and they would believe him.

The gullibility of crowds never ceases to amuse him.

His shoes click lightly as he descends from the podium, brisk and dismissive, and to the few men who follow him as opposed to politely dispersing with the rest of the crowd, he offers polite nods and a few sentences of small talk. Then, making it abundantly clear that he is very busy managing a personal industrial empire, he strides towards the nave.

Time to write off the entire thing as a farce, and set to work on what really brought him to London. The Crystal Palace is nice – very quaint – but Kaiba sees little appeal in the hundreds of feet of steel and glass. His own exhibit, held in the Grecian segment, was barely put on at all – the sheer dismay at his demands for curtains and a podium was absurd. Truly, Kaiba reflects, the building is a glorified corridor, rebuilt on the words of the people, which are hardly the most eloquent imaginable. Returning to Albion, to England, to London itself… Kaiba had been looking for bigger, brighter achievements.

And he has found them, but not amongst the alabaster statues and archaic pillars of the Grecian segment of the Crystal Palace. Nor, indeed, beneath the trailing leaves of exotic plants, vivid jade and crowned in flushed pink flowers - the expansive decorations of the Palace's nave. Then again, he has not spotted Mokuba here, either, though he told him to be waiting by the water lilies at four o'clock, sharp.

Peering over the hats and heads of the bustle of a bustle of spectators, Kaiba scans the corridor. It is no use: an exhibit on Japanese woodcuts is blocking his view. Kaiba sees the public's adoration for the newly opened eastern nation as mildly bizarre, but would always be willing to comply to their tastes, had he the insight to design a method of channelling them into spending. Nonetheless, the crowd is currently obscuring any view he might have of his brother, should he appear from the south, and that is unacceptable.

"Brother! Seto!"

Kaiba turns, and Mokuba barely manages to halt before crashing into him. He is panting, and grinning ear to ear. "Seto, there are alchemists in the Egyptian segment. Real Kemetic alchemists! They put a girl in a box, and they cut her into three pieces. Please don't be upset: they put her back together. They even had this elixir, that if you drank it every morning, it would make you live forever…" Seeing Kaiba's expression, Mokuba trails off.

"What time did I tell you to be here, Mokuba?"

"Four o'clock, Seto."

"And what time is it now, Mokuba?"

"Twenty minutes past four, Seto."

Mokuba stares up at him, obviously expecting a lecture. After a brief moment of thought, Kaiba speaks. "Next time, do not be late. If I have enemies, you will be their target. However, in a gesture of good faith, I am willing to attribute your delay to the damaging effects of Kemetic beliefs on your brain. Now, if you have seen all the exhibits that interest you, we must be going."

It seems to take a few seconds for Mokuba to process the fact that Kaiba has not only expressed worry for him, but has ignored his rudeness. By the time he does, Kaiba has started walking, and he falls into step, crushing decaying flowers with each footfall.

"Who's looking after the engine?"

"Kumo. I trust him. Not that it matters to our project if the engine is stolen – it merely looks bad for the company."

"So are we going to go work on that _thing_ now?"

Kaiba pauses to glance at the design for a machine to fold envelopes, smirks, and continues walking, choosing to remain elusive. Mokuba has to alternate between jogging after him and matching his even stride. They make their way down the length of the Palace, heading towards the elaborate fountains at its entrance.

Abruptly, Kaiba throws himself to his left, yanking Mokuba after him. Above them, the steel scaffolding of the second floor creaks, and something white flutters from the balcony. Straightening himself, Kaiba glares upwards, and Mokuba hurriedly follows his gaze.

A figure, outline distorted by the glass, darts away. A brown coat is all that is visible, and only that because Mokuba is watching intently – nothing to go on, and easily lost in the masses gathered by dozens of smaller stalls. Indeed, several women are already bustling past the place where Kaiba and Mokuba had been standing, their expansive skirts trailing in the fallen leaves. As soon as they pass, their chatter fading into a background of noise, Kaiba steps forward. Scooping the fallen object from the floor, he turns to face his brother.

Sloping handwriting on a delicately folded envelope, each edge crimped and embossed with golden ink. _To be delivered to Mr Seto Kaiba_.

Smirking, Kaiba makes a show of opening the it. "Observe, Mokuba. When you become as powerful as I, you will make enemies. Or rather, those unfit to be called enemies, who will attempt to intimidate you with anonymous notes, and the like. Let us read what they have to say."

_What can you show, but you cannot see?_

His smirk vanishes. "As I said. Attempts to… intimidate."

"Brother?" Mokuba ventures, his face wrinkled in confusion.

"Keep the envelope – should this elusive pest make contact again, we will analyse it further." Kaiba is almost talking to himself, each word contemplative and soft, as if plucked from a dream. "However, I will not place significance on an isolated incident. Most likely, this is some form of practical joke." Waving one hand in a gesture of dismissal, they resume the journey back to their airship in silence.

Kaiba has preparations to make, and if they involve the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of a newfound foe, so be it.

**xXx**

The accommodation provided is a triumph of self-serving decadence. The Albion authorities have set out to impress - and, in doing so, to intimidate; in arranging a temporary abode for the visiting High Priestess, they have spared no expense. The lavish decor indicates as much: all velvet curtains, antique furniture and fresh roses in crystal-cut vases. England does not offer the rich, gold-drenched voluptuousness of Egypt – but can rise to the occasion with a certain prim stateliness, elegant in the extreme.

Light filters through glistening stained glass, framing the lobby in softly tinged swathes of colour. Meanwhile, the hallway is carpeted thickly enough to muffle the pounding of heavy, booted feet. _Stifling _elegance. Beauty which shrouds and oppresses; pure Albion style.

Atem fumbles at the door of the hotel suite, managing to slot the unwieldy little iron key into the keyhole on the third attempt. The door, however, still refuses to shift.

He pushes with a little more insistency.

"You're not coming in," declares a muffled voice from the other side. "Not until you've dropped the gloominess. I'm not letting you in until you promise to smile."

Atem slowly allows his forehead to sink forwards and collide with the door, eliciting a _thunk _of exasperation. "Haven't been gloomy," he yells back. "I was just _thinking._"

"You were _brooding,_" maintains the voice. "I can tell! Now be good and smile or I'll never open up and you'll have to sleep on the doormat tonight."

"How can you tell?" grumbles Atem. "There's a door between us, Mana."

"Look up, silly! It's got one of those spy-hole thingies – see? I can _see _you. And you're not smiling."

Most assuredly he is not; he has been up all night, watching the sky shift from indigo to coffee-tinted pink on blue.

Yet Mana gives no indication of relenting, and the door shows no sign of swinging open of its own accord in casual defiance of the laws of physics (even Albian nobility cannot manage to secure _that _for their guests) so he resigns himself to compliance. Grudgingly, he forces the corners of his mouth into an upward curve.

The door creaks open a crack. "Terrible," opines Mana, peeking through the gap, messy strands of hair obscuring half her face. "More a grimace than a grin."

True enough. A reluctant smile is one of the most nauseating things to force. Duly, Atem lets go of his irritation and allows it to deepen into something genuine at the sight of his irrepressible friend.

"Better," she judges, and accordingly allows him entrance.

The door clicks behind them. "This place is _brilliant,_" says Mana, hopping from foot to foot. "Look in the bathroom. There's running water! And they've filled the shelves with all sorts of creams and soaps and perfumes – not a patch on the Kemetic counterparts, mind, but it all feel so _luxurious. _And the bed! You wouldn't know, because you were out moping on the streets all night, but all the furniture's great too; for the first time in ages I slept the night." Her unbrushed hair flops oddly over her eyes, in messy testament to the assertion. "Course I'd have made you take the sofa anyway," she adds, tilting her head to the side. "But still! If you'd stayed, you could have been happy knowing at least _I _was comfortable. And the couch is pretty soft too. You're selfish, you know?" And she smiles, for the accusations have absolutely no malice or meaning.

Atem blinks, taking in every word of the tirade, absorbing the trivialities as though they could accumulate as a thin, disguising layer that just might be mistaken for normalcy. He wonders if she is doing the same. No – no, she just seems happy. She always is, of course – but here she is content in addition to that. Novelty suits her, he decides.

"What's the agenda for today?" he asks, abstractedly.

"The very important duty of lounging around and sightseeing," she says, seriously. "Ishizu won't arrive until later – that's when we've got the welcoming ceremony thing, and we get to meet the infamous Mai Kujaku. Then – to business, I guess. But for now: sightseeing. And lounging. The important stuff."

"I can't relax enough to lounge," mutters Atem, settling on the (admittedly comfortable) silk-lined couch.

"I'll say," snorts Mana. "You're tense as – as a frightened animal, or something." She sits beside him, turning so that they are face to face. "Look," she says, searching for his hand and clasping it tightly. "You'll see your brother soon. But it's impossible until the welcoming ceremony. Even then, you'll only be able to skulk. I know what Mahaado says is eating away at you, and that you're desperate to prove him wrong. Me? I just want to work out the best way of achieving what Mahaado wants - and frankly, your way is better, if it works." Jauntily, she squeezes his hand. "But again – it involves waiting, right? So we wait. And we lounge. And we sightsee. And the shadows under your eyes are _appalling, _by the way_._"

"Only up close," says Atem, with the suggestion of a smile.

"If by 'up close', you mean a mile."

"Does it matter? I'm supposed to be lurking; nobody is _meant _to see me."

"It's not how it _looks, _though it looks awful. It means you've been forgetting something rather important: sleep." She quirks an eyebrow, expectantly.

"I'll sleep when I stop feeling the need to think."

She rolls her eyes – and he can almost _see _the variety of possible comebacks flitting around her head like demented fairies – but drops the subject.

**xXx**

Anzu is spirited into the King's Regent's private airship in a haze of confusion, scarcely aware of her feet scraping the ground; only aware of the way Lady Kujaku's cloak billows over the pavement, narrowly skirting the dust. It is entirely possible that Lady Kujaku is talking, but certainly she could not say for sure. She is too wrapped up in the moment; it muffles the senses with the sheer intensity of the thought: _she is to live in the Palace. _

She surfaces from this heady introspection just the once, to tell Lady Kujaku that she does indeed have a possession she wishes to retain in this new life: her ballet slippers. Lady Kujaku looks fascinated by the revelation that Anzu dances, assures her that she will have slippers galore at the Palace, and asks if they can please get home already for Anzu looks dead on her feet with limp, glazed eyes; Anzu does not see fit to press the point.

"Sleep," Lady Kujaku commands, helping Anzu into a cushioned seat. (Red velvet – like seats in a theatre.) Anzu has never flown in an airship before – she wishes to appreciate the experience properly – but her eyelids are leaden, and she succumbs to exhaustion before she can even register the decision to close them. And then they will not open again, and sleep is the natural conclusion. Before reality is wholly obscured by dreams, she is certain she can hear Lady Kujaku say something with her usual flippant cheer, but the words bleed into each other. At any rate, the cadences of her voice seem to indicate sanctuary, and safety - and that luck has caught up with Anzu at last.

She wakes – once. She thinks, at least. There is a small disturbance in her dream, slicing it off abruptly mid-narrative and leaving it to sink to the bottom of her memory, irretrievable. For all of a second she is whisked back to reality, and she is certain that someone is carrying her – but weariness and sleep claim her again before she can investigate this impression.

The second time she wakes, the setting has changed entirely. Disorientated, she cannot account for it. She is blanketed in a thick red quilt which seems to weigh on her like an enormous hand – and _red _stirs something in her memory. Blearily, she struggles up into a sitting position. The material which glides up her calves as she does so is – unsettlingly – silk, and supremely unfamiliar.

As the events of the night before gradually piece themselves together in her mind, slotting into blurry gaps and realigning themselves with this new situation, she gazes about the room. Restlessly, her eyes skim the surface details and little else: ornate, fragile-looking glass table; candy-striped pink wallpaper; four poster bed formed from glossy, dark wood. Her clothes from the night before are folded immaculately on a plump, embroidered chair. Light filters into glaring beams through the patterned window, dancing across heavy curtains and mingling with the gleams from the facets of a miniature crystal chandelier.

The room seems to glow with softly coloured warmth, cushioning her fragmented feelings. Momentarily, she settles, bathing in its subtle luminescence.

Which makes the inevitable panic, once it hits, all the more overwhelming.

Pierced by apprehension, she shoots up and springs to her feet (the alien silk material trickling to the floor and insinuating its way over her feet). She leaps across to the door, clutching at the heavy, antique handle, and prising it ajar.

Once she hits the hallway, she is confronted by a sleek figure in long, feathery skirts, leaning silhouetted against the wall.

"Lady Kujaku!" cries Anzu, accusingly.

"Good morning, Anzu," comes her placid greeting.

"_Good morning?" _Anzu finds it difficult to logically account for her own sudden fury, but this is of little significance, for the words pour out regardless, seemingly of their own accord. "You force me to play some strange little game. You wait until I'm practically unconscious, and you pack me into your airship. You bring me here and – and _undress _me and put me in these – _night things_ –"

Lady Kujaku blinks. "Actually it was one of the servants who undressed you," she says, offhand.

"Oh. Well – _well! _I wake up in the morning, and suddenly I'm in an unfamiliar room, with no warning whatsoever – and, you've, you've disappeared – and it might all have been a bizarre dream for all I know! - and you expect to _keep _me here like this, no questions asked, nothing! You've practically _kidnapped _me, d-dash it all!"

Lady Kujaku touches a hand to her lips, thoughtfully, then allows it to drop as she turns to look Anzu full in the eyes. "You're free to go," she shrugs, bemused.

"Oh?" Anzu processes this. "Oh." She considers.

Lady Kujaku waits.

"Well, in that case," says Anzu, firmly, "I'm staying." And folds her arms, as a kind of unconscious defence, lest there be any challenge to this decision.

Lady Kujaku – _laughs. _"Will you permit me to help you dress for breakfast?" she twinkles.

"Um. Um, well. That is to say –"

"Come with me," says Lady Kujaku, eagerly. "I have a pink frock which would look charming on you. Lace neckline. Pearl buttons."

Anzu narrows her eyes, rebelliously. "All... right," she says, warily.

The second she provides the mere suggestion of consent, she is seized by the elbow and whirled away through another door and into a boudoir, in a dizzying gust of enthusiasm and petticoats.

**xXx**

Ryou's first thoughts on being ushered into the metal basin are, not unreasonably, something along the lines of _how do they even get running water up here? _His second thoughts are somewhat more convoluted, including, though not wholly limited to, several key notions:

_Well – this is odd. _

_It's been months since I last properly bathed. _

_Should I be... embarrassed about that? _

_Ow, ow, _ow – _those imbeciles got _shampoo _in my _eyes.

He is rigorously scrubbed, scoured and, from the feel of things, sandpapered, until he feels convinced that he is one layer of skin poorer alongside all the dirt.

Marik holds up a triumphant hank of his sodden hair. "_See?_" he crows to Bakura. "Sopping wet spun silk. _Told _you he was pretty."

Ryou is assaulted by a number of oils and creams, heavily scented. A veritable army of lavender, jasmine and patchouli, alongside a not inconsiderable array of other, unfamiliar perfumes. Somehow, the thought occurs that Marik and Bakura are going truly overboard on this.

**xXx**

In the ensuing moments, Anzu is subjected to fussing and preening of the highest degree. Lady Kujaku's lips purse in concentration as she plucks at Anzu's eyebrows and upper lip with small silver tweezers. Miniscule prickles of pain are punctuated by intermittent darts of warmth from her fingertips, and blunt crescents of pressure from her long nails.

Plumes of soft-smelling powder blossom in the air with each press of the brush, dusting the mirror. Sticky rouge is delicately applied to Anzu's cheeks. Fabric rustles, waterfalls and clings. Her hair is teased, pulled and scraped into submission, sculpted into a perfumed edifice atop her scalp, whilst her waist is compressed into a miniscule, rigidly laced corset, over which stretches a taut, velvety bodice. Through the mirror's spotted surface, she catches tantalising glimpses of a white, porcelain, masklike face; snatches of fragile, butterfly eyelashes, and bold lips, calligraphy-painted.

**xXx**

Cotton slides over Ryou's skin, rippling with a marvellous softness hitherto unknown to him in the realms of fabric. The edges of the tunic weigh down the material with stiff, intricate embroidery composed of what resembles thread of gold. The rest is a smooth, downy cream. Marik delightedly paired it with white, tailored trousers, laced with a drawstring of gold ribbon.

The entire ensemble is vaguely laughable – not contemptible, but intentionally tongue-in-cheek: a playful pastiche of traditional Kemetic garb. The thieves slide countless gleaming bracelets onto his wrists, hang long, gem-studded necklaces that catch in his newly-fluffed hair over his head. They tie anklets adorned with sparkling, jewelled bells at his feet.

Bakura displays the slyest glance Ryou has ever encountered, holding a diamond-topped pin aloft. Comprehension dawns on Marik's face, followed by an eerie reflection of the same look. Which is... ominous, to say the least.

Ryou blinks frantically as his chin is cupped in Marik's rough hands – whilst, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Bakura fetch two slices of apple and a match. Marik presses two numbing cubes of ice to Ryou's earlobes as Bakura allows the tip of the flame to lick at the glistening pin. The ice is replaced by the apple. Ryou does not attempt any struggle, for Marik's grip is insistent enough to indicate deadly strength, whilst conversely _failing_ to indicate any particularly strong aversion to the snapping of necks. Bakura advances with the pin.

Several rather unpleasant moments later, Ryou's ears are weighed down by heavy gold hoops, and tinged by a slight red soreness. Bakura and Marik are busy painting his fingernails with a viscous, sharp-smelling gold liquid, squawking irritably at each other every time a jolt from the ship causes the brushes to jerk out of their grip.

**xXx**

Lady Kujaku borders on merciless, with her brushes, clips, paint and laces – all of which act as weapons against the hapless Anzu. Which is not to say that she is not intrigued to view the results. Which _is _in fact to say that she is aching with curiosity to view her newfound patron's handiwork.

Eventually, after what must be a solid hour of preparation, Lady Kujaku steers her towards the full-length mirror.

"What do you make of _this _stranger?" Lady Kujaku inquires, fondly.

Anzu peers at the girl poised within the frame. Slender, elegantly curved neck. Hypnotically framed eyes. An expansive, petticoat-crowded hoop skirt, rose-hued, culminating in a dramatic curve at the waist. She is entranced by this altered image of herself.

Lady Kujaku clasps a silver chain around Anzu's neck: a tiny diamond droplet.

Anzu shifts, restlessly, watching the girl in the mirror mimic the movement. "These clothes are so heavy," she breathes.

Lady Kujaku smiles. "You might not believe me, but these are lighter than the norm." She brushes a thumb over the edge of Anzu's eyelid, eradicating an errant smudge of kohl. "The ladies of the court wear gowns that weigh a good third more than this. We're exempt from the worst excesses; impractical, given the strains of our calling. _My _calling, that is."

"They weigh _more?_" repeats Anzu, disbelievingly. "How do they _move?_"

Lady Kujaku considers this. "Daintily," she decides.

Anzu is guided to the exit. As they head towards breakfast, she casts a final look at the gilt mirror that is half apprehension, half longing.

**xXx**

Marik and Bakura have meticulously powdered Ryou's face until it is so pale as to be luminescent. Now they are painting his eyes with liquid kohl, adorning the lids in a crushed, gold-coloured powder.

"What do you say, Bakura?" asks Marik, tongue between his teeth as he positions the tip of the brush.

"Cat's eye flicks," he responds, promptly.

"And I say you're completely wrong. I say we line the area slightly below his eyes..."

"_You _simply want him to look identical to yourself. Boring." Bakura snatches the brush from his hands, growling in an almost predatory fashion: "_Cat's_ _eye_ _flicks_."

"Tch." Marik shrugs, and slides onto the chaise-lounge, seemingly conceding the point.

Minutes later, and it is done. Ryou is pedalled towards one of the many mirrors lining the walls of the living room.

He feels they have dressed him like a god. The elaborate kohl renders his eyes peculiarly inhuman. Every inch of him is swathed or painted over with a thin layer of finery – like a mummy enclosed in a pristine casket.

He watches Marik lurk behind him in the mirror: a looming head above his shoulder. "The demon dressed as an angel," he murmurs. "But with a _serpent's_ eyes, not a cat's. Isn't that some sort of echo of Church of Albion mythology?"

"I wouldn't know," sniffs Bakura.

"The snake who rebelled against Sophia," says Marik, vaguely. "Or something of the sort. Oh, he's going to be _dangerous _beneath the prettiness."

Pinned by his own demonic eyes, Ryou can well believe the prediction.

**xXx**

The _Blue Eyes_ cuts through the sky, her envelope pressing against the roar of the wind, and cool air scours her deck. It is cold in London – far colder than it was in France – and not a single living creature stands to face the chill. Below, Mokuba sleeps in his cabin, exhausted from a day of exotic sights and Kemetic magic. Turbulence shakes the ship, but he does not turn or mumble in his sleep.

Deep in the _Blue Eye's_ belly, Kaiba is not so peaceful.

Each step is hideously loud, clanging against the metal walkway, escaping into the shadows and the echoes are his only company. Kaiba walks in a straight line – down, down, as far as the ship will let him go. On either side, gauges click, their figures meaningless, and cogs turn restlessly. A cylinder spews steam, and he does not flinch. Deeper still, and the coppery metal gives way to bright silver. Everything around him gleams, for on every side pipes line the walls, stretching the walkway, spanning the ceiling. Without looking down, Kaiba steps over one that crosses the floor.

An endless network of steam and water and power, all descending into the darkness. Kaiba's small lamp is the only source of light. The walls are meticulously clean, and all that is illuminated is bright, reflecting a blurred image of Kaiba's emotionless face.

Nothing here, it seems, but an endless corridor of mirrors and shadow.

And then, a spark.

Kaiba has seen it before. He knows it. The familiarity stirs an endless well of emotion, of the terrifying, insatiable desire to know; the need to discover; the hope that maybe – maybe just – it will appear to him again.

He breaks into a run.

The pipes become a blur, an insignificant mass of machinery blocking his path. Frustrated, Kaiba clatters past them, hopelessly tall and ungainly, and likely to lose his guiding light, which so very fragile and pure and _blue_… He will not let it escape. He cannot. It has him mesmerised, and he is powerless before it. If he cannot capture it, he will be empty – a vessel, forever shadowed by the knowledge of his failure.

The spark is distant and weak, but Kaiba knows that it is waiting for him. He is gaining, too, and it is brighter, brighter than magnesium, a flare on his eyes and as blue as lapis lazuli. He runs, feet pounding on the floor until they ache.

Outstretched arms collide with metal, and Kaiba stops himself from careening head first into the engine room door. It is locked, and for good reason. It is not a safe place to be – not whilst the ship is in the air. Mokuba is forbidden from coming down here. And yet, that spark, the essence of his ability to observe and learn and create, brought him here.

All gone, now.

Kaiba turns and rests his back against the metal. He is very, very tired, and surounded on all sides by the glare of unforgiving silver. Ducts and cogs and screws and bolts, and nothing else. Perhaps he has gone insane – but no, there are no other signs of that. A lesser man might collapse, but Kaiba composes himself. He must, for the sake of the corporation, himself and his brother. Drawing together the last of his strength, he stands.

Tomorrow, he vows he will return.

He will capture his spark.

**xXx**

**Extra notes: **

**- The Crystal Palace is a building in Hyde Park, London, used to accommodate the Great Exhibition in 1851 – a grand display of technology invented at the height of the Industrial Revolution. Basically, we decided that a third Exhibition would be held in 1870, in this universe. Fun fact: in 1936, part of it burned to the ground.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Previously on **_**Stars From the Gutter...**_

**Seto Kaiba unveils KaibaCorp's new airship model at the Crystal Palace, and is confronted by some searching questions from the audience. Later, he is given an enigmatic, unsigned note: **_**what can you show but you can't see? **_**Atem returns to Mana's hotel, where she is staying in wait of the welcoming ceremony to be held in honour of hers and Ambassador Ishtar's arrival in London. He is lightly chastised for his general air of gloominess. Meanwhile, Anzu is brought to the Palace – and, after some (loudly voiced) misgivings, she decides to stay and be dressed by the **_**de facto **_**ruler of Albion. Elsewhere, Ryou is undergoing a similar transformation at the hands of the thieves – and is equally ambivalent. We return to Kaiba, who seems to have experienced a close encounter of the dazzlingly blue kind. Which, after a small amount of time, brings us up to date with...**

**xXx**

Shortly after his unsettling transformation, Ryou learns that he is to be schooled in what Marik and Bakura somewhat euphemistically term their 'trade'. This is hardly surprising. Naturally he is expected to earn his keep. For now, he is student to one of the most unconventional lectures imaginable; pacing to and fro, with the dazzling, wide windows of the _Diabound _as backdrop, Marik proceeds to deliver his introductory homily. Ryou stands upright, his new costume stiff against his back.

"Thieves tend to lend themselves to different styles and techniques," says Marik, "conforming to their specific strengths and abilities." He strides across the length of the window, seemingly focussed on the opposite wall for inspiration, before turning to face his audience of one, index finger poised as if to punctuate. "Bakura, for instance, prides himself on the fact that he is rarely invited over a threshold. As a consequence, he's a master of locks, of forcing windows – even of the peculiar mechanics of rooftops and chimneys. Occasionally sewers, but we decided _that _method was simply not worth it quite early on; all the gold in the world couldn't induce me to step one foot in that subterranean _hell _again." He shudders, lightly, as though to shake off the unpleasant recollection. "Point is, give him a building, structure, pyramid, temple, shack – he'll find a way in. Whereas _I _specialise in psychological manipulation." Ryou blinks, a little overwhelmed by the mass of syllables. "I don't need force – people _let _me in. Same thing goes with regards to trust. On his own, no-one in their right mind would trust Bakura; he's too palpably sly. That's why my duties so often fall under the categories of 'dazzle' and 'distract'."

Ryou peers at his kaleidoscopic eyes. "Huh." Yes. Yes, he can very well see that.

Marik's face gleams with the kind of expression so intense that it forces one either to look away, or dissolve into its depths. It gives the sense of something intoxicatingly resplendent suddenly unveiled; easy to see why it could be found captivating. "For instance," he says, soft and majestically. Ryou leans in to hear. "Whilst we were having this talk, without your notice I took the liberty of, ah, well, _liberating _from your pocket..."

"- A spare mother-of-pearl button, a piece of string and three paperclips," finishes Ryou, calmly.

"Hn?" Marik produces and inchoate noise of surprise, narrowing his eyes accusingly at Ryou. Then, after a tense moment, relaxes. Though still visibly unsettled, he gives a short, admiring laugh. "You little _demon..." _he murmurs, wonderingly.

"Guess not everyone's so easily taken in," twinkles Ryou. Faced by Marik's vaguely crushed look, he adds, somewhat chastened: "Except I did know what to expect." Not that he was holding anything of particular value. Nonetheless, it had seemed obvious at the time.

Marik snaps his fingers in quick realisation. "_Trust," _he intones. "Of course you weren't distracted." He tilts his head, reprovingly. "You're obviously wary of me." His impish grin is decidedly crooked.

Ryou's mouth quirks upwards in response. He toes at the rug, bashfully. "I trust you," he protests, quietly. Then, more mischievously: "But I don't trust that you'll stay away from my pockets."

There is a suitably impressed pause. Marik appears either lost for words, lost in thought – or perhaps more generally just lost. Clearly he had expected nothing short of veneration in exchange for his wisdom. Oh dear.

Ryou sneaks a hesitant look upwards. "So, um, I don't suppose I could have my things back?" he pipes up.

Marik gives this due consideration. "_No," _he snarls, with sudden vehemence, flinging himself petulantly over the chaise-longue_. _

**xXx**

Observing a rather pathetic struggle between her protégé and a grapefruit spoon (with the latter on the road to achieving dominance), Mai takes pity and does not attempt conversation. They breakfast in relative silence. Though, in all fairness, the words flow freely with Anzu; the girl may not be wholly communicative, but Mai is a practiced enough diplomat to know how search for answers without applying any uncomfortable – or, indeed, perceptible – pressure. And she is intrigued – inexplicably so – by this undernourished chit of a girl, who appears to possess some splinter of potential that Mai longs to identify. At any rate, there is something about Anzu Mazaki that cannot be summed up in a convenient phrase; she demands a more detailed description. Mai finds she is more accustomed to delivering footnotes. The novelty amuses her.

She resists the urge to motion for the girl to sit up straighter, just as she refrains from adjusting her hold on the spoon, or urging her not to slam her cup on the table so stridently - because, despite all the awkwardness, there is an unconventional grace there that it would be a pity to disturb. Anzu's movements are at once jerky and balletic. Furthermore, there is a muted kind of ferocity to her expression that indicates should Mai dare to correct her on a point of etiquette, there will be hell to pay.

Mai takes the hint, and busies herself with buttering a scone.

Once nothing remains but a spray of crumbs on the delicate china and ringed sepia stains at the bottom of the teacups, she lays a cautious hand on Anzu's arm. Birdlike, Anzu twitches, then giggles uneasily in an attempt to obscure her agitation.

"Come with me," says Mai, soothingly. "There's someone you need to meet."

Ah, she looks so terrified! And, what is more, so determined to conceal it. She is not succeeding particularly well, either; that face was made to be a faithful mirror to every single emotion that crossed it. She allows herself to be lead through wide hallways that must intimidate with every echo; past shelves that brim with antiques; portrait-peppered walls, flanked by marble statues. With some delight, Mai notes that she is seeing the palace through Anzu's eyes: once more, she views old sights afresh, with the absence of that jaded filter that comes with familiarity. Gold and silver glisten with renewed insistency; colours, dulled by experience, are once more strikingly vivid.

Interesting. The girl seems to have the power to induce _whimsy_ in all people within the immediate vicinity. A dangerous skill indeed.

They approach the door to one of the more sidelined rooms; one of the many that are utterly devoid of purpose, existing solely to enlarge the building. Mai allows it to swing open, the better to gradually reveal the sight within. As it gives way to the scene inside, she is rewarded by the beams of wonder that flicker successively across Anzu's face. Very predictable. Immensely, enjoyably predictable.

Sitting at the table in the corner, in almost precisely the same posture as the day before, are the King and his personal bodyguard, playing idly at dice. It occurs to Mai that they could not look any less imposing if they tried; or more bafflingly commonplace – not that this seems to ameliorate their affect on Anzu one iota. Oh, _boys. _

"Go on in and introduce yourself," Mai orders. She has already warned the two that they are to expect a visitor – but Anzu is not to know that. The self-introduction is to be her first challenge. Mai prides herself on having coerced her guest into facing so daunting a situation, with only minimal effort.

Awed, Anzu looks at her feet. "That's..." she murmurs.

"The King of Albion. Yes. Say hello." Oh, the joys of allotting impossible tasks.

Resolve steels into Anzu's face; Mai feels a thrill of satisfaction. "All right."

She watches as Anzu steals into the room and delivers a fluid curtsey. Leaning in the doorway, she observes Yugi and Jonouchi's curiosity and Anzu's reserve; how the two invite her to join in the game; how, after the space of about ten minutes, they are laughing together, relaxing into their chairs, chattering at a rapid pace. Also predictable. Immensely predictable. But nonetheless somewhat touching to watch.

Damn _whimsy. _

She smiles, with a touch of wistfulness, and leaves to attend to the preparations for tomorrow's welcoming ceremony. Enjoying the fruits of new companionship may be postponed, but Kemet cannot wait.

**xXx**

"I can't do it," Ryou mutters, falling heavily onto the chaise-longue in defeat, with a forlornly resolute _whump._

Marik scowls, impatient. "Try again." Truth be told, the patience had been present for the first ten minutes or so. It has now waned, concurrent to the overflowing of his boredom threshold.

Obediently, Ryou stands, clothes still stiff and uncomfortable on arms accustomed to being bare. He cannot help but feel mildly resentful, having been pushed and prodded for the past two hours of his training. He had not considered what becoming a thief would entail when he had first agreed to it, being largely preoccupied with the notion of surviving for at least another month without the constant threats of malnutrition and disease hanging over his head like a pre-emptive funeral shroud.

He had certainly not anticipated failing miserably at the most basic form of pick-pocketing.

For the second time in his life.

As Marik – once more, acting the role of an innocent bystander - strikes up yet another conversation about the weather ("quite lovely, this time of year: sunshine for several hours a day; cloudy with a chance of royal scandals to be seized upon by the press"... he has embellished this little drama with a different accent each time, growing progressively more ridiculous) Ryou positions himself so that they are standing parallel to one another. His right hand is perfectly poised to shoot out and grab the conspicuous leather wallet hanging halfway out of Marik's expansive coat pocket. Arduous practice has taught him an inch of subtlety, it seems. He moves.

Sharper than refracted sunlight, Marik snatches his right wrist, twists it around Ryou's back, and pins the left arm to his side. He wrenches, just a little – enough to elicit a small blossom of pain, deep enough to make his point: he could inflict far more with ease, should he desire. Without any fluctuation in the strength of his grip – there is no relaxation, but no tightening either – Marik tugs his wayward apprentice an inch closer.

(And yes, whilst there is pain, there is also warmth, and there is the flutter of hazy breath somewhere near the back of his neck. Marik cannot be steely, like Bakura - but he can be menacing. Yet always, he seems to pulse with a ferocious, mercurial vitality. At times: deadliness personified.)

"You weren't bestowed with the best of reaction times, were you?" (At others: more than a little insufferable.) Marik punctuates the words with a small, emphatic shake. "You're obvious. Everything you do is _predictable, _and it doesn't take a master thief to read you; any old person on the streets could guess at your purpose by just watching a flicker of your movement. Now, obviousness would almost be acceptable if you were better at slipping away once caught - but as it is, you will be a liability to us."

Ryou winces. Marik holds his grip for a moment longer – more than enough to prove a point – then relaxes, gradually. Ryou feels the blood flush back into his arms, and the sharp warmth of his mentor's nimble fingers recedes, simultaneously.

"I'll learn," he says, eventually, because he can think of no alternative. He twists to witness Marik's response.

Marik's face is even, devoid of its customary animation – and, or so it seems, masked. Motion makes Marik childlike: tempestuous, and impatient. Stillness lends him something that borders on stern. Standing there opposite, poised a little lower than the line of his gaze – arms still clutched in his slender hands – it is like being held by a breathing, impassive statue.

"Good," Marik says – his characteristic enunciation even more clipped than usual. (Bakura would mock, thinks Ryou. He, for one, finds it a little imposing.) "Try again." And the look softens into something approaching his usual energy.

Ryou almost smiles, but suppresses it; he does not want Marik to think he is attempting to charm him out of seriousness.

Ten seconds later, he is cuffed on the head.

"Bide your time," is the imperative given.

Ryou nods.

After an exceedingly long dialogue, he is kicked in the shin.

"I'd be getting suspicious by now," is the irritated explanation. "Prosaic chitchat is _never _so engrossing that one would wish to prolong it." Ryou imagines he was simply bored of the banalities.

Sick of what is shaping up to become repetitive ineffectuality, Ryou _lunges_. His fingers graze the side of the wallet for all of a split second. Before Marik arrests the momentum of his arm once more, he swears he glimpses a flash of raised eyebrow.

And then, caught mid-spring at exactly the wrong moment, he overbalances and falls to the floor, scuffing a valuable looking Chinese rug in the process.

"Terrible," judges Marik, with a sardonic twist of the lip. "Worse than all the times before. But - kudos for showing initiative." Ryou breathes out, shakily. "Albeit of the vastly ill-judged variety."

"Again," splutters Ryou, and Marik nods in contained approval.

Once more, they begin.

Bakura walks in right as Marik catches him again. Pinned back by both hands, with Marik's free arm clamped around him from behind, Ryou feels a jolt of apprehension.

Bakura raises _both _eyebrows. "My - and here I thought you were teaching him to pickpocket."

Ryou looks up, and then away, because looking up entails eye contact, which makes him blush. Fortunately, Marik chooses that moment to release him, shoving him forward so that Bakura can grab the scruff of his neck before he falls. The coordination is uncanny.

He is _grinning_ as he releases Ryou.

Marik is not. Snidely, he says: "Didn't know you were such a voyeur, Bakura." He motions for Ryou to begin the process of 'grab for the wallet and be thrown to the floor as direct consequence' once more. Ryou shrugs helplessly, and begins to walk in line with Marik.

"That's what makes me so fascinating," replies Bakura, after a pause long enough to give Marik the impression that he has fallen silent for good, only to shatter the illusion. "Always more to discover."

Marik rolls his eyes. "Yes. Just look at me – I'm _enthralled." _Ryou almost smiles. "Stand up straighter, demon child," he adds, almost as an afterthought. Ryou complies, but with Bakura apparently intent on destroying his concentration, it is understandably quite difficult to – well - concentrate.

Another, lengthier pause, during which the possibility of silence abounds.

Bakura teases it out, stretching it for all it is worth. Then snaps it. Thoughtfully, he muses. "Mm, well you should try to look enthralled more often. It suits you."

" Rather like domesticity _doesn't," _Marik replies, sharply. Ryou, who has been attempting to tail him, falters.

Bakura laughs outright. "Ah, so that one stung, did it?"

"Shut up and read your newspaper," Marik rejoins promptly.

"I would, but I seem to have misplaced the front page. Or, well, it seems to have _been _misplaced_. _Which is something rather different, I find." Bakura's voice is all airy breeze, with the distinct possibility of freak lightening.

Marik allows his head to loll frustratedly backwards. "Oh, for the love of…! Kitchen counter, first shelf on the right." His waves his hands in vague shooing motions. "Now begone."

" And miss our charge's latest display of ineptitude? Not for the world. Or, indeed, the world news." Bakura leans against the kitchen doorframe. "He's aiming for your left, by the way."

"_I know," _hisses Marik, swatting Ryou's arm out of the way.

"Just thought you'd let your guard down."

Murderously: "Well you were _wrong, _weren't you?" He slams Ryou mercilessly to the uncarpeted part of the floor.

They work in silence for a few, fruitless minutes, the only noise supplied being the low murmur of the ship's engine and the occasionally sharp intake of breath and resultant crash, as Ryou grabs again and again for the wallet.

And then, Bakura speaks up. Conversationally. "So, it seems things are heating up in Prussia. Not enough to boil; fairly tepid, I'd assume. Interesting, nonetheless."

"_Bakura I am trying to concentrate and so is the demon child will you kindly take your leave_." All this is spoken in one, emphatic sentence. Marik's breath control is, frankly, enviable.

" Oh, come now, I long to hear your thoughts on the matter," rebukes Bakura, delighted to have made such a colossal impact – and never has he sounded more Albian.

Marik ignores this, out of resolute principle. He works on correcting Ryou's form instead.

Five more minutes, and he relents. "Prussia's irrelevant. They're on the fault line between Kemet and Albion, for the Gods' sake. A little revolt might cause one empire to crumble at the edges, but not two. The real hope lies in South America. Now if you don't mind…"

Bakura feigns shock. "Mind? Never."

" Yes, you're _mindless_." Marik clenches his fist. "And I have someone to teach. Or salvage, at any rate."

" Unlikely."

"Which one? Teach or salvage?"

Bakura snickers. "Either."

Ryou makes another resigned grab for the wallet, and half-heartedly prepares himself for another painful _tete-a-tete_ with the floor.

**xXx**

When Honda was told he was to carry out a task for the illustrious Lord Pegasus, former Chief Advisor to the departed King, Duke of Wellington and Privy Councillor, there were many things that he had not been expecting. Least of all the disguise, but then, that deserves some consideration, for it characterises the nature of this job: simultaneously over his head _and_ beneath his dignity.

Thus, here he is, working as a cook in the palace kitchens.

This merits repetition.

He is working as a _cook. _In the palace kitchens.

That dispenses with the ridiculous aspect. As for the terrifying part –

- He has been ordered to assassinate the child King.

He has been ordered to _assassinate _the child King.

Out of his depth. He is so thoroughly out of his depth he is in a veritable ocean. He sinks. Fathoms below circle sharks.

Truth be told, he has never killed a man before. Or a woman. Or, hell, a child. He joined _Blackwings _with an impression of assurance, a guise of machismo and a laconic air of threat. Clearly, he was convincing; the group did not deal primarily with assassination but with robbery, opium handling and smuggling of various sorts. They all just _assumed. _Honda, having displayed talent with his hands, a good head in a fight and, in general, a flair for many acts ranging from the slightly to the heavily illegal, was the expert chosen to do Pegasus' bidding. No-one had been _expecting _assassination. But then, no-one had doubted Honda's capability to execute such a task.

He is afraid – deadly afraid.

And yet, he must complete his mission. More pressingly, he must prepare tonight's soup course. But most of all, he must suppress the waxing panic that threatens to gush through his throat and overwhelm him completely.

**xXx**

Mokuba resists the urge to drag his knees up to meet his chin. His teeth chatter a little in the cool morning air, but Seto seems braced against it, merely pulling his coat a little tighter about him, and Mokuba has no desire to appear weak before his older brother.

The journey has been a long one; the taxi claustrophobic and dark. Mokuba has heard only one or two indications of their location – the rush and roar of the Thames; the calls of paupers who gather around the bank before they begin their morning's work, selling flowers or oranges or a hundred other things. Most recently, he thought he had glimpsed the sign for Crown Street, rounded black letters on a chipped grey board, but it is a little earlier than six o'clock, and he does not trust his own eyes, blurred as they are. Besides, fog obscures any shape more than a few feet from the window.

The cab bounces over a pothole, and he wonders how long it will take them to reach the University. They might be there in under half an hour, if they are as far along the route as Mokuba suspects – and if traffic remains as sparse as it is currently. So, just enough time to breach a delicate topic. Of course, he will do so via less sensitive material. And quietly, too: Seto taught him years ago that even cab drivers have ears.

"Seto?"

His brother regards him as though he has woken from a dream. Evidently, his expression of calm alertness was a mask. "Yes?"

"How many will be in your audience at the university?"

Seto considers. "A hundred, perhaps." His expression sharpens, the corners of his lips quirking in dry mirth. "It shall hardly be the most daunting of presentations."

Mokuba cannot help but grin in return. "I know! Everyone at the Crystal Palace believed you. I saw them after you spoke, in the crowd. They lapped it up."

"The people of whom you speak so blithely are investors," Seto chides, "though I must agree: the ease with which crowds will latch onto an idea presented to them in a shiny auditorium is remarkable."

"What will you make for them next?" Mokuba asks, and he wonders if his brother might stay this relaxed for the rest of their time in London. "Mechanical wings? They would never doubt that we had developed them. We are Kaiba Corporation, after all."

"_I_ am Kaiba Corporations," Seto answers, "and you would do well to remember it." Yet he is still speaking softly, each word unburdened by his usual depth of thought. Thoughts as heavy and dark as lead, and Mokuba will speak for the entire journey if it keeps them from him – though he knows he must eventually segue into a more serious strand of conversation. Seto speaks again before he can put much thought into how he will do so. "Wings seem awfully unsophisticated, in a society where flight is a simple commodity. Perhaps we should throw our competitors for a loop and catch the sun in an hourglass."

Mokuba chips in despite himself. "But would you trust anyone with that power?"

Again, a span of several seconds before Seto responds. "Not our shareholders. No, they would merely pervert its use for their own ends. It is basic human nature: place an intricate scientific curiosity before the masses, and watch the wealthy steal and covet it for their own. The crowd's reaction is grotesque pleasure, of course. They, in turn, must fulfil their duty."

"Duty?"

"Well, once the curiosity itself has been purchased, there are tickets to be flogged. Tickets to see its base uses second hand."

They share a brief laugh, but Mokuba does not allow comfortable silence to set in. "When we first arrived in Albion, you said that you were inspired." He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable on his bare wooden seat. As if in empathy, the cab lurches.

"What of it?" He wishes he were better at reading Seto's face, but one emotion is largely indiscernible from the next, especially when Mokuba has said something so obviously foreboding.

"Well, I wondered…" Mokuba considers how he will pose the question – Seto will only be aggravated by him skirting the point. "Is that something to do with you staying up every night?" He lowers his voice to the barest whisper. "I'm sorry, Seto, but I noticed it. You stopped as soon as we got to the house, so I didn't want to bring it up, but… I worry about you, too."

He averts his eyes, and wonders whether he has overstepped some boundary. Seto's behaviour of late has been strange, but calling it into question suddenly seems inappropriate – especially after such a rare moment of simple happiness and understanding.

The cab seems to slow. They must have reached Tottenham Court Road, and the traffic can only delay their progress for so long. Seto has maybe five minutes to answer.

"Mokuba, now is hardly the time to discuss the matter. …However, your concerns are not unfounded." Fortunately, there does not seem to be a trace of anger in his voice. Merely faint resignation. "I did not wish to disturb our visit to London by telling you about my… discovery, but it seems inevitable."

"Your discovery?" Seto is working on several projects, but none so intriguingly vague.

"Deep within the _Blue-Eyes_, I have seen something. It first came to me in Paris, and it has haunted me since. Something ethereal, yet intensely, vividly real – I would doubt my sanity if it were not for that."

"But what is it?"

The cab stops.

"No time for that now. Come, Mokuba." With one gloved hand, Seto twists the handle of the door. It does not budge. There is a slight tightening of his lips, but otherwise, Seto does not indicate his displeasure. He turns.

A rough wooden door separates the driver's seat from the compartment in which the passengers sit. There is, presumably, a latch on the other side. After all, Mokuba can hear the pained scratching of it being lifted.

Neither brother flinches when they see the gun.

"I suppose you want money?" asks Seto, the picture of a nobleman bored by the tedious proceedings bound to take place in the next few minutes. "You realise that I have a presentation to give in roughly an hour. I must be prompt."

"Yes," says their driver, exposing somewhat too many teeth as he grins, "I realise that, Mr Kaiba." He holds the gun almost languidly, in a way that suggests a deep and intimate relationship with homicide. Other than that, he is unremarkable – medium height and build; a brunet – the best appearance for such a job.

Mokuba feels that he should show initiative. If he distracts the man long enough, Seto might be able to disarm him, perhaps. After all, neither of them, despite all appearances, has ever been robbed by a cab driver before. "Excuse me, sir," He puts on his best innocent smile. "How do you know our name?"

"Very well, for it belongs to a great and affluent man," comes the sharp reply, with a slight gesture of the gun barrel for emphasis. Not much of an opening, but enough for Seto, who lunges. In a moment, he has their attacker's wrist in a grip tight enough that it elicits a gasp of pain, and Mokuba, feeling he should at the very least be of some use, grabs the gun. It is oddly heavy in his hands, and very cold.

Seto quickly shocks him from his reverie. "What do you want from us?" he growls, slamming the man against the coach's side. One hand remains on his wrist, but the other has a clawlike grip on his windpipe. Outside, a horse whinnies. The only response is a gurgle of laughter.

"Tell-" he throws his entire body into the man, squeezing ever tighter, "-me-" further constriction, and Mokuba twitches at the bulging eyes and convulsing fingers, "what you want!"

"Not… me…" the response is evidently satisfying enough, for Kaiba loosens his fingers just enough that Mokuba can see developing bruises beneath them, purple and swollen. And the gun is weighing his hands down. It is such a pretty colour, with its dark silver metal and the trigger, smooth and shining and inviting.

Ragged gasps punctuate each syllable. "It's… my… employer. He… has a… message for you."

Seto raises one immaculate eyebrow, and, though he is panting from the exertion of an impromptu display of his skills in self defence, he seems as imperturbable as ever, each movement cold and detached. "_Enlighten me_."

A note, embossed in the same pattern as the last, sharp gold curls on thin, delicate paper. Seto does not even look at the content. "Who wrote it?"

"I don't… know!" Seto clicks his tongue, shoving the man away with an expression of disgust.

"I'll play your game," he says, flatly, "but should you ever involve my brother again – even inadvertently, as today – you will die. I doubt you saw your employer's face, or that you ever will, but make sure that you pass on the message to the rest of the scum on the streets, for I know that he will stoop to hiring any one of them again. Harm my brother; die. Now, kindly take your leave." Seto steps aside, and the man scrambles at the door to the driver's seat before he runs. It swings back in his wake, and Kaiba turns his attention to the paper.

_What can you show, but you cannot see? Why, an idea, of course! _

_~Maximilien Pegasus_

Seto turns over the sheet. A drawing: a ship, sleek and expansive.

_To scale_

Mokuba feels that he should say something, especially as he is still holding the gun, and does not know where to put it, but it is pulled from his hands, and suddenly Seto is kneeling before him. "Mokuba," he says gently, "put it down. We are leaving all of this. We were never here." For a moment, arms encircle him, but the clasp is so brief that Mokuba wonders if it happened at all. He drops the gun, which seems to burn a dark hole in the floor, and follows his brother from the taxi. They step out onto the street.

The fog has lifted.

"Brunswick Square. We are not far from the university, but I fear we may have to walk." Seto has already begun striding down Bernard Street, paying no heed to the startled looks of pedestrians. Mokuba quickly follows – he cannot risk losing Seto to the London weather. "Though Mokuba," he looks up, and Seto is staring straight ahead, "I advise you to see this as a lesson. One must never place one's faith in public transport."

**xXx**

Ryou leans back against the chaise-lounge, nursing several new bruises, all of which blossomed after yesterday's training session – to say nothing of the greying ones of the day before. But, today, he decides to prioritise and focus on the new bruises. After all, one must have stability and some semblance of order to one's life.

Or something.

Marik takes a seat beside him, unbidden – but not unwelcome. No, despite the fact that Marik repeatedly slams Ryou against the floor (_deliberately _missing the _numerous _carpets, Ryou sometimes suspects) on a regular basis... well, Ryou feels that they have developed something of a rapport. That, or after spending a week or so with Bakura, Ryou's judgement of normal human interaction has been somewhat skewed.

"You know," says Ryou, for the purpose of conversation, "it must be awful to die suddenly."

Marik makes a strange choking noise, and nods, slowly, in an attempt to calm himself. "Y-yes, I'd never given that much thought before. Splendid observation, demon child," he says, in an odd, spluttering voice.

"I mean," Ryou continues, unperturbed (the thieves seem to find _everything _he says inexplicably hilarious), "that you could have some really _awful _last words. They could be 'um'. They could be 'I'm just going to the washroom'. It's terrifying." He shudders, lightly. "Or – or something hurtful, like 'I hate you'."

Marik nods. "Or something pathetic, like 'I love you'," he adds, wryly. "I see what you mean. Ryou, I would ask what brought this on, but as I'm beginning to learn, you have one of the most delightfully morbid minds I've ever come across. It probably just occurred to you out of the blue. Extraordinary," he muses.

Ryou watches him slowly stretch, and curl up like a coiled spring at the corner of the seat. Done, as everything Marik does, with a childlike, clumsy grace – of which he seems half aware (to say nothing of smug) but, paradoxically, half startled by his own confidence. A mass of contradictions, this man – but, for all that, fascinating.

"How is it that I'm not dead?" asks Ryou, eventually.

"Ah," says Marik, grinning. "There's method behind the morbidity after all, hmm?" Ryou shrugs; cue more laughter. "Tell me, demon child – have you, amongst your devilish wanderings, ever come across the concept of alchemy?"

Ryou blinks. Twice. Thrice. "You mean heka?" he asks. He looks at Marik with newfound admiration. "You're a magician?"

"_No," _Marik snaps, petulantly. "Heka is religious," he says, with a gesture of one arm. "I defy all gods," he continues, lifting the other. "Thus – alchemy." He folds both arms, a little defensively. "Heka is all quackery and mysticism. _Alchemy _is simply the manipulation of natural elements."

Ryou tilts his head to the side, perplexed. "So... you healed me?"

"I performed an alchemic ritual, yes," he says, somewhat calmer. Evidently Ryou has been forgiven for his ignorance. "It was a skill I acquired during my misspent youth. The initial period of it, anyway. Now I'm busy misspending it in other ways." He considers. "Financially sound ways. With explosions, and psychological manipulation. Fun stuff."

Brow furrowed, Ryou processes this. "Well, um," he says, intelligently. "I – thank you. Thank you very much for rescuing me. You saved my body – a-and Bakura saved my soul."

Marik seems at first unsure of how to respond – but then his face resolves into a bright, beaming grin. "Just call us your salvation, demon child," he laughs, and tousles Ryou's hair. "And, incidentally, when he comes in – please, please I beg of you, say that in front of Bakura."

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- Oh, Kaiba. Such an unrepentant capitalist. Meanwhile... ze plotzorz, it thickens! Sorta. The thieves still dwell in the realms of fluff, but their time will come.**

**- Incidentally, the description of London's streets is entirely accurate to the (nineteenth century) map, or so Aluminium informs me. Heh. You choose whether or not to believe it. **

**- OK, not entirely accurate; we've turned many a square and park into an airship parking area. But... yeah. **

**- On the Albion religion: we'll learn more of this in the future, but for now: their God is known as Sophia, who is a figure in Christian Mysticism, other early forms of Christianity, and Hellenistic philosophy. The name is Greek for 'wisdom'. So – think Christianity, only with emphasis shifted towards a female God. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Previously, on **_**Stars From the Gutter...**_

**Ryou begins what is to be a spectacularly unsuccessful foray into the world of thievery. Mockery and light political discourse ensues. Mai introduces Anzu to the King of Albion and his bodyguard – and, approximately half an hour later, they are firm friends. Mai leaves to help finalise preparations for the Kemetic Ambassador's arrival in London. Honda, ordered to assassinate the King by Maximilien Pegasus, is working **_**incognito **_**in the palace kitchens. Mokuba and Kaiba are threatened by a highwayman on the way to the university. After much Seto-badassery (TM), they are rewarded with another card from their newfound rival: **_**what can you show but can't see? Why, an idea, of course! **_**On the back is a diagram of an airship. To scale. Ryou learns that his life was saved by Marik's powers of alchemy – which are totally different from heka, because heka is all quackery and mysticism, and Marik has a modicum of scientific integrity. Apparently. Which brings us to events the following day...**

**xXx**

It is a classic instance of Albian pomp and circumstance. Outside Buckingham Palace, the crowds have assembled, organised into neatly delineated blocks. Towards the entrance, if one is viewing the scene from above, lies a crowlike cluster of sleek top hats, mingled with equally elegant bonnets, of every conceivable hue available in pastel: here stand the nobility. Further down, as if depicting a visual gradient of the social scale, lie the bowler hats: less sleek; more rounded; staple of the lower-middle class. In the inevitable tail end of the spectators reside flat caps of varying colours and degrees of shabbiness. Here are collected the working class – automatically granted the inferior viewpoint. Clustered at the very back gleam the unfortunate heads of the hatless.

Earlier, Mai fitted Anzu into a neat outdoor jacket and laced her head in a lilac bonnet. Amidst the countless adjustments to the paraphernalia of ceremony – involving further painting of the face, grooming of the hair and all-round masking of the person – Anzu rather dizzily asked:

"Lady Kujaku? Why do we need a treaty with Kemet? We made our peace decades ago..."

To which Mai replied, somewhat grimly: "Mahaado and my predecessor left much unfinished in arranging the armistice. Carelessness catches up with you, darling, particularly in the diplomatic sphere." With a flourish, she drew the ribbon at Anzu's neckline into a plump bow. "Besides – we're meant to be strengthening ties, are we not? Call it an _entente cordiale, _asour obdurate friends across the Channel would."

Thus prepared, she took hold of Anzu's hand and did not let go until they were outside, standing beside the King at the gates of the Palace, waving serenely to the crowds with languid cheer. If Anzu now feels something in her chest threatening to explode with excitement and pride, she keeps it adequately contained, breaking her composure only once in order to grin with a manic kind of glee at her rescuer and Regent, who responds with a subtle flash of fondness through an upward twist to her smile.

Even earlier, Atem donned a thick woollen cloak with a deep hood and arrived with the sunrise in order to hide himself in the wide branches of a leafy evergreen slightly outside the throng. Here, he just might catch a glimpse of Yugi's profile: who can tell?

At a similar time, Mana greeted Ishizu with genuine cheer, instantly pulling her into a crushing hug. The Ambassador beamed and the High Priestess giggled like a child before they were both given a hand into the ornate carriage that was to carry them to the procession held in honour of their arrival.

Now, Jonouchi surveys the crowd somewhat idly, searching for possible threats with little expectation of any transpiring. Inadvertently, he catches the eye of the richest businessman in Britain and scowls. Seto Kaiba barely deigns to sniff in response. Several feet below, his brother's eyes shine like new pennies. A few rows behind, Lord Maximilien Pegasus checks his fob watch with an ostentatious flick of the wrist. Peering above its glimmering face, he smiles at the brothers, slow and sly.

(In the packed confines of the palace kitchens, Honda struggles with three heavy copper pans, and drops a silver ladle. The clatter can be heard throughout the room, but elsewhere it is dulled by the roar of the eager, gargantuan crowd.)

Ishizu and Mana stand in the open-topped carriage, meeting with cheers and curious stares from those nearest. Mana tugs at her heavy, cotton train and Ishizu lifts her chin a fraction higher. The lengthy procession begins: white and gold; the area strewn with the flags of Kemet and, most prominently, those of Albion; even the horses carry gem-studded saddles. Before them sprawls the massive, gleaming palace, providing a clean backdrop for the boy King and his associates who stand at its entrance. For now, the two Kemetic guests stand and wave – Ishizu projecting a demeanour of cool, unfazed dignity and Mana of undisguised excitement.

("And to think – it's all for us!" Mana had exclaimed joyfully, minutes beforehand, in gleeful anticipation.

Ishizu shook her head. "It's all for _them_," she corrected.

"Cynic," pouted Mana.)

Atem notes that the weather is dull, bleak and gloriously _British _in its utter dampness. Really, it would be nostalgic were it not for the fact that the moderate breeze carrying an equally moderate chill is currently causing him to overbalance. Batlike, he hangs out of the tree, straining to catch a glimpse of Yugi, but succeeding only in teetering dangerously over the edge of the branches. His hood flutters about his face before sinking down to shield it once more. Inching out as far as he dares, he catches sight of the Regent, who, at present, is half-turned towards her young companion: a brown-haired girl who is all elbows and awkwardness and completely unrecognisable to Atem.

Forget her. He must see his _brother. _

_Yugi..._

Mana looks a little to the left and suddenly seems to find it difficult to maintain a calm expression.

Ishizu taps her on the shoulder and mutters in quiet Kemetic: "What's the matter?"

"That _idiot_," she hisses, seemingly addressing a spot just above Ishizu's head. Whilst all the while smiling serenely to the crowd.

"Mana," says Ishizu, more pressingly. "_What._"

"Th-there's something I need to tell you," she whispers back, finally wrenching her eyes away from the unknown offending sight. "Atem's here. As in – _here, _here. As well as just, um, here in England."

Ishizu blinks.

"It was at Mahaado's orders!" Mana insists.

"Not so loudly," Ishizu warns, abstractedly. She is too busy processing this new information to imbue her words with any particular urgency. So Atem, after two years of self-imposed exile, has returned? Why so surreptitiously? She can well understand the urge to circumvent public humiliation – but this is absurd; he would do better to travel overtly, wreathed in proud defiance, rather than conceal himself like a man ashamed of his own legacy. The Pharaoh, she decides, must have been suffering from temporary lapse of judgement, if not out and out insanity, when he advocated something so politically short sighted.

"No-one speaks Kemetic here anyway," Mana reminds her, sadly.

"Mana," she says, in a concerted effort to drag the High Priestess back into concrete reality with vocal intensity alone. "Where is Atem right now?"

Her smile falters. "He's in that tree – oh – don't look!" she whispers, alarmed. "They'll notice. Look, there's a lot I have to explain when –"

At this moment, many different things begin to occur all at once.

Kaiba stands staunchly upright, elegant in his tailored long coat and immaculately fastened cravat, and utterly bored. Not that one would be able to glean any particular emotion from his trademark impassive expression; inwardly, he could be frustrated, overjoyed or riveted and there would be no corresponding outward hint to suggest either or any of the above. Nonetheless, this ceremony is almost unbearably slow and, to his mind, pitifully unnecessary: where is the gain in pandering to a useless fragment of the Kemetic aristocracy who, most likely, are not fooled in the slightest?

He allows his gaze to flicker across the crowd, mentally detailing the names, attire, expressions and comparative wealth of those in the immediate vicinity. When this also takes a turn for the tedious – as it does with predictable swiftness – he settles for counting slowly to one hundred and staring at the distant surroundings.

_One. _The cloud-dimmed sun, set in a gradient of gray like a jewel under a thin gauze.

_Sixteen._

The palace looks so blank and white and spotless it may as well have been polished all over by some invisible hand of God. Not that Kaiba believes in God, as such – although, on the off-chance that there does indeed exist some variety of celestial authority, he holds it to be a matter of practicality not to antagonise it overmuch.

_Twenty three._

He and God enjoy a comfortable rivalry, at any rate.

_Thirty six._

There is a black-cloaked figure leaning out of a nearby tree. Kaiba would assume _gardener, _were it not for the frantic air of clumsiness and the absence of shears or – or other gardening implements. (A rake or something.)

_Forty two._

The cloak slips out of place and Kaiba is briefly confronted by two slanting eyes that gleam in the distance like tiny chips of amethyst.

_Fifty – it can't be._

The eyes in question widen in surprise, before they are shielded once more by the hood.

_Sixty... sixty... lost count. _He has lost count.

He has been _seeing _so many things –

At this moment, Mana is conversing with Ishizu in a torrent of rapid Kemetic. Their vehicle approaches the royal huddle at the gate. The King of Albion steps out to greet them with open hands and a wide, genuine smile.

The explosions commence.

At once – chaos. Gunshots ring out like the successive felling of giant dominoes across the expansive square. Mana and Ishizu duck back into the carriage, flattening themselves on the floor for protection; Mana covers her ears, terrified. The spectators become a mass of screams, all contributing to one anguished spate of confusion. Towards the gate there is a deafening thunderclap, after which follows thick, corrosive-smelling smoke; Ishizu immediately thinks _bomb _over the crackling buzz of her ears, and burrows her head deeper into the velvet seats.

Jonouchi wrenches Yugi to the ground, shielding him from any direct hit from the hail of bullets that still reverberate across the grounds. The explosion took place perhaps twenty feet away, it seems – as far as he can tell, missing any human target ; and yet, it was obviously aimed at Yugi; _must _have been aimed at Yugi; they have to get _away. _He cannot _think _in this dense haze of smoke and alarm.

Above the panicked cacophony of the crowd floats a tinnily amplified voice, disembodied in the haze.

"_This is the work of Revealing Light! Liberty! Justice! Revolution!"_

The colour drains from Ishizu's face. Peering over the rim of the carriage, she catches a glimpse of crisp crimson flags which pierce the dispersing fog, trailing over the smouldering remains of the celebration.

Mana grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back down with sudden violence. "What are you _doing?_"

"I-" Ishizu half-chokes over the persistent buzzing in her ears, then gives up on voicing the flurry of mixed emotions that seem to obscure all rational thought.

"_Workers – there is no need for continued deference. The monarchy are little better than parasites to this nation; the nobility worse. People of London – you have been robbed!"_

Kaiba tears his way through the mass, Mokuba's hand clasped firmly in his, fighting against the stream of people that flows in the opposite direction, away from the devastation. Steadfastly shutting out the blaring cries of the speaker. He reaches what remains of the royal party.

"Idiot!" he screams to the King's bodyguard, who is still crouched over the King in an attempt to protect him. "Get _up _and come with me!"

Jonouchi turns fiercely from Yugi, and gives a strangled, almost animal noise of frustration."What do you say we do – there's no way of – the Palace won't be _safe; _they might have –"

"Just follow!" Kaiba snaps.

For a fraction of a second, Jonouchi hesitates. Then, he jerks his head in a motion of acquiescence that may even be a nod.

Together, they usher Yugi, Mokuba, Mai and Anzu through the gardens, leaning over as they run. The gunshots have ceased – Jonouchi guesses that the would-be assassins have long since melted away, satisfied to have at least induced uproar – but naturally, this guarantees nothing, and the panic has not subsided one murmur.

They approach the edge of the palace grounds and tumble into the street, and it is all a desperate scramble until they reach what appears to be St. James' Park.

Here, it appears Kaiba has parked his airship: it is a small, sleek affair, very unlike his usual airborne home. The driver promptly swings open the hatch. Jonouchi pushes Yugi in first, then gives Mai a hand through. Next goes Mokuba. Anzu declines his offer of help, climbing in without assistance. He even steps aside to let Kaiba in first, though he accompanies the gesture with a glare. It is met by a slow, snakelike smile, and a refusal to budge. Glare intensified, Jonouchi swings himself into the ship.

They collapse, shoulders heaving, into the seats, which are clustered in a square that rather resembles a horse-drawn carriage. This ensures that they are all face to face; eyes wild and awash with relief at their escape. Mai looks at Kaiba directly (not something of which she makes a habit; his face is level steel) and gives a curt, mute nod of thanks. She smoothes her skirt.

Takeoff. Mai wonders if she ought to be concerned that they have no idea where they are being taken. But then – well, she trusts this man. To a point.

"All right," says Jonouchi, recovering at once. The others blink, still struggling for breath after the impromptu sprint. "'Revealing Light'_. _Who's that?"

The ship continues to swoop upwards – graceful, yet still vaguely sickening in its motion. Mai can hear the subtle rhythm of raindrops against the hull.

Kaiba raises an eyebrow. "Observant little guard dog, aren't you?"

"Guess so," says Jonouchi, brushing off the insult with a visible twinge of annoyance. "Now: details, please."

"What gives you the impression I know anything about what appears to be a terrorist group?" The words are clipped and brittle.

"Tch." Jonouchi shrugs. "Guess I sort of thought you knew everything." He digs his hands into his pockets and stares: a direct challenge.

"Touching as I find your apparently unassailable faith in me –"

"_Kaiba," _growls Jonouchi. "Tell us what you know." The two regard each other, impassive.

Anzu looks askance to Mai. Mai shrugs, and mouths '_longstanding, inexplicable vendetta'. _She is not entirely sure if the desired meaning is conveyed with any degree of accuracy (judging by the unchanged look of perplexity on Anzu's face) but Kaiba is beginning to speak once more, with exaggerated reluctance, and she is halfway curious as to the answers he may provide.

"Revealing Light is an international, republican organisation," he begins, slowly.

Mai stiffens. "Egalitarians?"

"Most certainly," says Kaiba, with a noticeable edge of derision to his tone. Then, for Mokuba's sake, he adds: "An egalitarian – in the political sense of the word – is one who believes in material equality of outcome for all. They tend to call for workers' control of factories, and a government by and for the proletariat – if, indeed, they advocate government at all. My apologies if such talk offends you, Your Highness," he adds to Yugi, eyes two small, flinty slits of what might be irony. Mai prepares to intervene, lest he overstep the mark.

"So – they want equality?" Anzu pipes up, from somewhere behind Mai's shoulder. "You mean... money, like?"

Kaiba nods, tersely.

"What's the matter with that?"

A steely sort of silence. Kaiba's face hardens; Yugi looks almost afraid; Mokuba pitying. Mai despairs.

Anzu bristles. "Well?" she demands, with a little more assertiveness.

"Anzu, darling," says Mai, breezily, placing a gentle hand on her knee. "It's all very well, those democrats proselytising on their platforms in the street, or the egalitarians spouting happy nonsense about a make-believe utopia. But these people are dangerous. No concept of _realpolitik. _I'd shudder to put the Empire in the hands of doe-eyed dreamers like that." She pauses. "Particularly not dreamers with bombs. They're unhinged. Detached from reality."

Chastened, Anzu drops her eyes to her feet. Jonouchi gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze. She half-smiles back.

"Revealing Light," continues Kaiba, "advocate, as far as I know, a workers' state. They plan to achieve this by violent means. Uprising. They aim to provoke it worldwide. At the head of the organisation is a woman known only as Dark Necrofear. Each branch has a group of three assassins: King's Knight, Queen's Knight and Jack's Knight. Their task is to kill the heads of state. The rest of the members try to induce subversive behaviour on the street. Strike action. Demonstrations."

"How do you know this, brother?" murmurs Mokuba.

Mai has also been wondering.

"I own the largest airship company in the Albion Empire. I've been targeted by this group before; they hate businessmen as much as they hate the throne. I've sacked factory hands who had ties with them. All of this information has been compiled after years of dealing with the threat." Silently, he leans back, as though wearied by this dispirited interrogation.

Yugi nods, slowly. "So now they're after me."

"Not exactly," says Mai. "They also appear to be after me. And, for that matter, the High Priestess. Probably the Ambassador. And Mr. Kaiba here. Speaking of our guests – were any provisions made for _their _escape?"

"One can only hope they made it out of the blast," says Kaiba, smoothly.

"Indeed," says Mai. "Incidentally, I think it should be safe to return to the palace. If you would be so kind as to instruct your driver...?" The request is duly conveyed. "I thank you for the kind loan of your ship, Mr. Kaiba. You have a good head in a crisis."

"I try," he says, with a fleeting smile.

**xXx**

Ishizu and Mana are hurriedly transported to the house that has been prepared for them. After the events of the day, their Albian attendants have been amusingly abashed; presumably they have never experienced such a crisis and are completely at a loss as to how to respond. Ishizu wisely allows the language barrier to cut off any excess awkwardness; the two Kemetic visitors are well-schooled in the Albian tongue, but that is not for every lackey to know. Particularly not when ignorance contributes to the peace of mind of both sides.

After much bungling of various attempts at communication, the Albion staff are dismissed. Ishizu brought a handful of her personal attendants so they are hardly bereft of help; their household also includes several scribes. Just as well, given that the honeymoon period of mutual posturing between England and Egypt appears to have reached its end. The two visitors have been flaunted, paraded, nearly murdered – now they have been fastened into a cosy little alcove in central London, ready to be quietly ignored.

Ishizu closes the door behind them and takes a seat opposite Mana in the sitting room. She has taken her time: lit the fire; divested herself of jewellery; even made summons for tea, which now sits at the table, steaming in antique china.

But even stalling has its limits. Ishizu wonders if Mana's reluctance to confess revolves around Something She Ought Not to have Done, Something Atem Ought Not to have Done, Something She Ought Not to have Done in which Atem was Complicit, or whether this tale will simply encompass equal transgression from the two of them.

She has no idea what Mana ought to be worrying about. Technically, the High Priestess outranks the Albion Ambassador.

But the High Priestess most certainly does not outrank the Pharaoh.

... Ah.

"Mana," begins Ishizu, setting her cup down on the varnished wooden table with a decisive _clink. _

Mana stares intently at her fingernails.

"_Mana._"

"I'm not doing anything wrong, Ishizu!" she blurts out, sitting up with such force that the table teeters.

"I made no accusations. Now. Tell me. Is this something I need to know?" Given the aforementioned outranking dilemma, Ishizu knows that all she can ask for is permission. Far be it from her to demand.

"Oh," Mana murmurs, half-sob, half-sigh. "I just feel so _guilty._ It was an adventure before. But if I'd died back there in the carriage and the next thing Mahaado learned was that I'd deceived him...!" She gazes up, eyes dry and unblinking. "It was a _game _before."

"Tell me," decides Ishizu.

Mana sighs. "I can't see why he wouldn't want you to know. We're not just here to pay a visit, you see – or even to oversee the planned treaty."

"I suspected as much," says Ishizu, diplomatically.

"Mahaado told me to bring Atem. He – well, he jumped at the chance. It's been years since he's seen his brother. Yugi. It was all meant to be a very public surprise."

"Where are you going with this, Mana?"

"It was supposed to cause such a stir! The exiled prince returning to the fold once more: newspapers go mad; he's in the public eye, photographed in his brother's arms. He's so charismatic – enough that Mahaado trusts him to do the job."

"Mana – be plain."

Mana sighs. Reluctantly resumes. "Then, amongst all the clamour and excitement – he was supposed to persuade Yugi to abdicate."

**xXx**

Atem forces himself to tread at a casual pace down narrow, dusky alleyways. He knows that Mana and Ishizu are safe; saw them whisked away in the carriage; knows where they are staying. Now he must force himself to relax; he will get there in good time if he does not tire himself. Ignore the leers of prostitutes; the sharp eyes of the would-be pickpockets that track his progress down the alleyway. Walk softly. Head down. Take the lesser-known streets. Step down on pads of dead leaves, dodge horse dung, litter, various patches of muck and shrapnel.

Closer to the palace, the streets were alive with screams. Now, they are all but desolate under the darkening sky – framed only by a few stragglers of London's underclass.

He is re-accustoming himself to London: the bright dashes of greenery and the smears of sludge; the bustle, panic, silence, danger of night. He feels a shade of himself. He so very nearly trod these streets – not these specific streets, naturally – as King, after all; but that is beside the point, for events catch up with one, and the unexpected is never fluke: merely product of the gods' blueprint.

He _must _reach Mana and Ishizu. But first he must calm himself.

He misses Egypt, terribly. Recollects.

"_Mahaado, I'd do anything to aid you and Kemet – but I don't understand why you want me to do _this_." Atem hugs his knees to his chest, defensively. _

_Mahaado draws a hand above his neck, in a familiar gesture, as though attempting to comfort himself. "Atem," he says, voice ragged and weary. "All I want is peace." Shadows rim his eyes like two blurred curtains. _

"_Yugi will sign the treaty!" insists Atem. "Ishizu will draw it up; it'll be swift, and beneficial for us all."And then, he thinks, we can return to _living – _minus the prospect of war weighing every action down. It is past time that they cease stepping as if on eggshells. _

"_Perhaps," Mahaado says, and he seems to seriously consider the possibility. "Perhaps he will. But then... perhaps he will not. I do not worry about your brother, overmuch. He will prove either cooperative or fully pliant to our persuasion, I am sure. I worry, not about the boy King, but about his regent. That _woman. _A dogged witch of an imperialist. She's a Machiavel; she would never agree to lasting peace – and she has far more influence over the throne than the King himself." True enough. To Atem, Mai Kujaku is a half-remembered wisp of perfume; a distant swish of skirts – but she has fast become a shadowed menace; the spectre of all they fear. _

"_Yugi will be eighteen in a few months!" Atem remonstrates. "Lady Kujaku will no longer be regent." Albion cast into the light; his homeland no longer barred to him... _

"_And do you honestly believe her influence will cease? She will have schooled your brother well, I suspect." _

"_Yugi's better than that!" Atem cannot believe that his brother could have changed so drastically in so little time. Their family is steadfast, unmoveable – not subject to the shifting winds of influence and flattery. Atem has scarcely changed, in his year of exile. And whatever virtues he may possess, he is eager to attribute tenfold to Yugi. If Atem is constant – Yugi is a mountain. _

"_Atem. My friend. That may very well be true. The fact still remains that _you _will be better than Yugi." Mahaado holds up a hand, quashing Atem's inchoate protest. "I do not want to secure ephemeral peace for a generation – easily shattered by the next flighty royal to occupy the Albian throne. I want _eternal _peace between the Albion and Kemet. What use is this continuous antagonism? There is so much to gain by _sharing _our culture."_

_That, he never disputed. It is practical matters, not dreams, which concern Atem; he and Mahaado have always seen eye to eye with regards to ideology. That is not the _question.

"_It'll never happen, Mahaado. Albion views Kemet as a threat. Look. To them, Egypt is nothing but an upstart colony that's getting ideas above its station."_

"_And the land and power to match," Mahaado insists, wryly. Beside the point, again. _

"_They're still coming to terms with the fact that they have to take us seriously now! You have no _idea _what kind of prejudice abounds in England. They _cultivate _dogma." _

"_Which is why I want _you _as King, Atem."_

_Atem shakes his head, firmly. "Impossible." So far removed from his hopes now, that the prospect – once entrancing in its inevitability - is almost repulsive. _

"_Why?" Mahaado is not antagonistic, but firm. Patient. _

"_I'm no longer in the line of succession."_

"_If Yugi was persuaded to abdicate..." _

_Hopeless. "Then the crown would fall to the next in line: Mai Kujaku. None of us want that." If only Mahaado would accept the situation he has, rather than construct a hypothetical, running parallel but separate from reality... _

"_Not necessarily. Not if you returned to England in a fit of splendour – won over the public once more. There would be a crisis. You were never erased from the line of succession." _

_And now he dredges up _that _particular technicality. "I left in disgrace and humiliation! It amounted to the same thing. They would never have let me wear the crown."_

"_Because – and I mean this in the kindest way, Atem – you were a fool," says Mahaado, gently. _

"_And I take that as the kindest of compliments," is Atem's wry response – although, in reality, he is aware that the statement contains much truth. _

"_I'm being serious Over here, we appreciated your act of loyalty – but did you expect support from the English people?"_

"_It was rash, I'll admit." All right Mahaado – you win. No need to press quite so far. _

"_You can repair all that. Win over the public. Convince Yugi to abdicate in favour of the rightful King. Then – you will marry a noblewoman of Kemet. England and Egypt will be forced to accept one another. Together, you and I shall effectively rule over one Empire." _

_What can Atem do but acquiesce to this touching fantasy? He cannot bring himself to disillusion his friend and Pharaoh. Let events take care of _that_ unpleasant duty. As it is, Mahaado _will _be humoured. He deserves as much. For that matter, he deserves better. _

**xXx**

"So Atem agreed," finishes Mana. "However, he never had any intention of displacing his brother. It would have been betrayal, even if Yugi _had _consented. Instead, Atem just wants to watch. He wants to prove to Mahaado that Yugi will be a just King, and sympathetic towards Kemet. He'll convince Yugi to sign a permanent peace treaty. Perhaps even an alliance."

"Will that be good enough?" asks Ishizu, softly.

"It'll have to be."

Ishizu nods. "Objectively speaking, there is no way that Atem could return to the throne. He'd face revolt – if not outright revolution; his allegiances obviously lie with Kemet. He ought to have known before that religion is one aspect with which rulers interfere at their peril."

Mana fixes her with imploring eyes. "So – will you help us?"

"Yes."

A tentative knock at the door.

"Atem," breathes Mana. "Oh, thank the gods!"

**xXx**

Anzu settles down onto her bed and teases her hands through her newly freed hair, attempting to coax away the lingering scent of smoke from the explosion. She feels half-faded, like a crushed flower: makeup reduced to oily smudges at her cheeks; dress horrendously crumpled; bonnet streaked with mud from the clinging vines of the gardens that caught at her as she ran.

She has been curiously numb for the entire evening. A few days ago, she felt like a spectator to her own life, duly observing the narratives of others, watching each pair take up the centre stage and perhaps performing an unremarkable role of a tertiary character. Now, after waiting in the wings for seventeen years, she has been thrust abruptly into the spotlight. She was somewhat unprepared for the rush and the glare. After having been given all the perks of the main protagonist, she is terrified by the harsh abrasiveness of reality: the terror of the crowds; the coldness in Mr. Kaiba's eyes; the crush, and the panic, and the _certainty _that this was it. Still trembling softly, she doubts her capacity to cope.

Lady Kujaku soon enters the room to help Anzu cleanse her face. She silently sets to work on erasing the half-melted mess with soft little squares of cotton.

"Imported from Kemet," she observes, twirling a white sprig of the material in her nimble fingers. "Just as the kohl and rouge are, incidentally. Or, rather, the idea of them. That's one good thing to come from this abominable shift in foreign policy. Until quite recently, painting one's face was the sole monopoly of harlots. These days, it has been brought into fashion, in imitation of our friends abroad."

Anzu gives a weak chuckle. "The nobility can get away with a lot." How alien it all is.

Lady Kujaku continues to daub at her face. A thought strikes Anzu.

"My Lady?" Or is it supposed to be _Your Highness? _She does not know; has never seen the _need _to know up until now...

"Yes, Anzu?" She does not seem particularly worried either way, at any rate.

Anzu consigns _titles _to her mental list of irrelevancies. "You don't have to help me with this. I mean – you could send in a – a lady's maid to show me how, and, ah, I'll be able to arrange my own toilette." It is distinctly odd, after all, to be dressed and attended by the most powerful woman in England. One would imagine it would be flattering; it is not. It is merely bizarre – and awkward. Why does Lady Kujaku not recognise that it is awkward?

Instead of recognising the awkwardness, Lady Kujaku laughs. "I don't have any personal attendants or ladies' maids."

"Oh?" says Anzu, astonished.

"Only fools put their appearance in the hands of another," she says, smoothly, somewhat wryly.

But then, she always sounds somewhat wry. To say nothing of worldly, blasé and witty to somewhat dizzying effect.

"I... I suppose that makes sense." How odd – that a _de facto _queen should dress herself! For that matter, how strange that, amongst the nobility, self-sufficiency is considered radical. Anzu, who has been more or less independent all her life, cannot say she is admiring – it seems a small concession already made by many by necessity – but it certainly adds to the compelling mystique of this woman.

Lady Kujaku finishes cleaning Anzu's face. The skin feels damp, and a little raw. "You have a rather unfortunate complexion," she notes, abstractedly. "Spots." She rests a finger on Anzu's cheek.

Well. _Well! _Anzu jerks away. "_My _skin hasn't been moisturised and pampered all my life!" she replies, heatedly, without thinking, overmuch. When her mind catches up with her mouth, and she recognises exactly how pert she has been with royalty, she cannot even bring herself to feel guilty.

Lady Kujaku – mercifully – laughs. "I'll concede the point. Well, we'll soon change that."

Anzu picks up on this as a chance to ask what has been flitting through her mind all day. "We will? Y-Your Highness, with all due respect – what am I doing here and how long do you expect me to stay?"

Lady Kujaku pouts. "Spoilsport," she says, airily. "You had to _ask." _

Anzu presses on, regardless. "Am I staying for a night – or indefinitely? I have a life, Your Highness. It may not be much of one, but it isn't disposable." A flash of guilt assaults her; she has been welcomed here. She winces and wavers. "You've been very kind, but..." She trails off, confused as to her own wishes.

"Do you really want to leave?"

_Well, that's the crux of the matter, isn't it?_

"M-maybe."

Lady Kujaku's face softens instantly from amusement to regret. "I'm sorry you had to see this today," she says, gently.

Anzu looks down at her lap, allowing a curtain of short hair to screen her eyes.

"It must have been frightening for you. I forget – what it is to have nerves," she says, with an ironic little chuckle. "Mine have practically been eroded. It's the effect of politics; I may as well be steel."

Anzu looks up and proffers a tiny smile. "Very well-dressed steel."

"I can promise that what happened today won't happen again," says Lady Kujaku, earnestly.

"Can you?"

"Without a doubt."

Lady Kujaku paces the room, infused with a sudden seriousness. "Taking you in was - caprice – rather than anything I planned. I suppose we ought to introduce some terms."

"That would be... good."

"Anzu." Suddenly breezy once more, she sweeps forward, landing seated on the edge of the bed. "I'll be frank. No matter how skilled a dancer you are, with lack of refinement – and spots – to contend with, you won't be given a second glance."

Anzu bristles.

"No – _listen _to me. How about this. You stay at the palace – and I teach you how to be a lady. All I ask in return is your company."

Anzu blinks, rapidly, feeling at once affronted and flattered. Eventually, amidst all her ambivalence, she manages a response: "Why?"

"Because you're so intriguing! And I – well, I have always wanted a protégé. The King would like a playmate. Katsuya Jonouchi could certainly use some good influence. What is there to doubt or dislike? Once I'm satisfied with your progress, I'll ensure that you're discovered by an eminent director. Several, if you want room for choice."

Anzu feels the words blaze through her head like a whirlwind. Thoroughly disorientated, she finds herself nodding in mute agreement.

**xXx**

**Extra Notes: **

**- When Kaiba uses the word 'republican', he means 'opposed to monarchy'. This bears no relation whatsoever to the Republican party in the USA. That's probably self evident, but... yeah.**

**- Amazing how both Atem and Kaiba can stalk brooding through the streets whilst ignoring the mass of poverty surrounding them. Ah, 19****th**** century Britain! **

**- The formation of international treaties in the 19****th**** century was markedly different to today's procedures. Usually, they would be drawn up by the victors after a war – and would not have to be sanctioned by the UN, chiefly because the UN did not exist. However, Albion and Kemet have long since ceased to be at war: a tentative armistice was signed in 1857, upon Mahaado's ascension to the Kemetic throne, and trade was re-established the following year. This treaty is something approaching dangerously close to an alliance – depending on who you ask. (If you ask Mai, it's nothing of the sort.) At any rate, it is an attempt to repair the somewhat fractured relationship between the governments of Egypt and England. **

**- Apologies for the distinct absence of thieves in this chapter. They'll be taking the centre stage quite soon, though, so not to worry...**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...**_

_**Quelle horreur! **_**At the ceremonial parade held in honour of the Egyptian Ambassador and the High Priestess' arrival, a few more events take place than are necessarily planned. Atem, voluntary exile and brother to the boy King, conceals himself expertly in a nearby tree – a fact with which Ishizu and Mana are, for many reasons, perturbed to be confronted. Kaiba manages to catch a glimpse too; this does nothing for his mental wellbeing. Oh, and also, there are explosions. Our heroes manage to evade the blast in Kaiba's airship, where they learn that the perpetrators are Revealing Light, a revolutionary, egalitarian group that appears to be targeting the King. Our other heroes, Mana and Ishizu are driven rather unceremoniously back to their lodgings, where Mana explains why Atem is in England. Pharaoh Mahaado has a plan. A very good plan. Trouble is, it's ridiculous. He plans for Atem to return to England in a blaze of glory, persuade his brother to abdicate, and take over the Albion throne. Atem intends to do no such thing, even if Mahaado **_**does **_**want to be BFF rulers of empires together. Instead, he plans to do what he can to aid Yugi in conducting the treaty with Kemet – and, moreover, to offset the influence of his Regent, Mai Kujaku... Speaking of whom – Mai and Anzu are safely back at the Palace, and Anzu has more than a few misgivings. Chief among her qualms is the fact that she could have been shot today. Mai assures her that this could never, ever happen again, and they strike a deal: Mai will teach Anzu to be a Proper Lady (TM) in exchange for her company; after Anzu has been deemed sufficiently ladylike, she shall be recommended to a director or two. Which is all very well, but you guys have probably been wondering what the thieves have been up in the meantime...**

**xXx**

The Diabound drifts serenely through the crystal skies above the placid Mediterranean Sea, edging its way through smooth, breezeless air, whilst the thieves within grow increasingly, unspeakably bored.

It started innocently enough. Marik briefly mentioned that they would be above water for a day, maybe two. Lessons continued, taking up most of Ryou's time. There was even one last stop at a port, though Ryou was informed in no uncertain terms that his debut into society would not take place in a windswept, mud baked town lodged in a dusty corner of the Tripolitanian coast, and was not permitted to leave the ship. Bakura and Marik had returned a few hours into his incarceration, burdened with heavy bags of supplies (though Ryou is still dubious as to whether yet another Persian rug for the living room could be counted as a necessity), and filled with untold enthusiasm for the coming trip.

They had neglected to mention, at the time, that the aforementioned journey was to take them several hundred miles to Italy. (Wherever Italy happened to be).

Ryou, having ascertained this through a long and meandering conversation with Bakura, then had the considerable pleasure of watching both him and Marik gnaw holes in the furniture as they sank to the dark, cold depths of unmitigated tedium. By the second day spent over endless ocean, lessons in thievery consisted of Marik spontaneously deciding that Ryou was not trying hard enough at learning the intricacies of unarmed combat, and then demonstrating each method by throwing him against walls and grinning madly at the resulting crash.

Honestly, Ryou thinks, his hosts could not be more childish if they tried.

Though perhaps mentioning this can wait until he is not likely to sustain grievous bodily harm for doing so.

It is with an acute sense of encroaching peril that Ryou comes to breakfast on the fourth morning to find his hosts silent and grinning, practically twitching with barely suppressed excitement. That Marik is deftly polishing a pair of revolvers does not particularly help matters.

"We," says Bakura, with an elegant flourish at nothing at all in particular, "are pirates."

Ryou contemplates backing out of the room. It would, perhaps, be the best means of preserving his last vestiges of sanity. On the other hand, one could quite easily argue that the damage has already been done – and more so.

With one last swipe, Marik finishes his task, closely inspecting the resultant sheen of the revolvers. Ryou has never seen a gun quite so close, and – not for the first time – he wonders why, of all people, this particular pair of gentlemen, so deadly and bright and eccentric, became his rescuers.

"We spotted a merchant ship," Marik explains, with barely suppressed glee. "Freedom from the endless monotony of the skies – at last - and a crimson dose of blood-soaked glory to boot!" Ryou notices that, as he speaks, Marik's eyes never drift from the guns, whose long barrels are pointed uncomfortably near to the direction of his nose.

"Breakfast, however, is served as usual. Do help yourself." Bakura laces his fingers beneath his chin, and simply observes. Ryou wonders if, in some vague sense, he is being tested.

Bakura rests two cutlasses next to the toast.

Ryou takes a breath, prepares himself, and sits down on an antique armchair. The fabric bunches uncomfortably as he shifts, attempting to maintain a nonchalant façade, whilst desperately hoping that he will be permitted to forgo involvement in whatever illicit activities have been planned for the morning. The meal continues in silence.

By his second fried egg, Ryou can bear it no longer. Bakura may be revelling in his confusion, and Marik may be too busy basking in the glow of his revolvers to notice, but Ryou is still rather hazy on the notion of piracy.

"I thought you were _thieves_," he says eventually.

If anything, this further compounds Bakura's amusement. Stretching laboriously, he cracks every knuckle in his hand before answering (Marik immediately glares at him for that, and Ryou assumes that it a recurrent issue of one of their habitual wars). "We are. Mostly. Think of it as a business venture into the world of temporary boarding and entering."

Marik elaborates without missing a beat. "Which is to say, we send up a distress signal, board the worryingly altruistic ship that comes to help, enter into the hold, take everything of value… and leave. Hopefully without undue commotion."

Ryou frowns. "That sounds surprisingly simple."

"That is because I neglected to mention the part where Bakura invariably alerts every member of the crew, most likely for amusement, and proceeds to display his awe inspiring swordsmanship through epic, if completely unnecessary, battles with the captain."

Ryou snorts into his toast.

Bakura shrugs. "The wretch sees no flaw in the plan, Marik, so I don't suppose you should, either."

Marik scowls. "The _flaw_ is when you get captured, and I have to save you - despite the utter lack of gratitude you'll show afterwards."

Ryou would happily watch them banter for the rest of the morning, if not for one persistent doubt. "What will I do?"

He receives a joint blank look.

"I mean…" he gestures vaguely with his knife, and decides that picking up a trait so peculiar to the thieves is almost certainly a symptom of his descent into the vicious world of crime, opulence and swords at the breakfast table. "…It's always been the two of you. Won't I get in the way?"

Another look of incomprehension, quickly melting into the usual mixture of amusement and condescension.

"Wretch," Bakura intones seriously, "did you honestly believe that we would take you with us so early in your training?" Ryou blinks.

Marik finally sets down his revolvers, if only to deal the punch line. "Besides, what makes you think that we've ever done this before?"

Which is how, somewhere in the midst of the Mediterranean, Ryou finds himself in the control room of the Diabound - his only guide a brief and cryptic statement over Marik's shoulder about 'keeping her flying in a straight line… or something.'

**xXx**

Marik and Bakura pile into the miniature, two-seater airship stored in the _Diabound_ – a battered contraption, perhaps not gray originally, but certainly gray now – and depart from the ship with only minimal fuss.

("Get your ass out of the front seat – I'm driving."

"No, Marik, _I _am. Get in the passenger seat like a good second-in-command."

"Bastard. You never let me drive."

"Marik, last time I let you fly the ship, people lost limbs. Some of them lost their _sanity._"

"You laughed at the time!"

"Out of the driver's seat. Now. No, don't _pout._"

"What, so not only don't I get control of the ship; now you have sole monopoly over my expressions, too?"

"Yes. It's distracting."

"Huh.")

Distraction. Feh. Isn't everything they doa distraction? _This _certainly qualifies, thinks Marik. A frivolous whim, born of unadulterated self-indulgence.

... Heh. They get to be _pirates. _He grins, readily, and a quick look aside proves that Bakura is unable to suppress one in response. Marik hums excitedly under his breath as they detach from their fastenings at the side of the ship, airborne.

"Is that a _sea shanty _you're humming?" asks Bakura, disbelievingly.

"Yes. Yes it is."

"Imbecile," he says, with a trace of fondness. After a few seconds, he is singing along.

Bakura steers the aircraft forwards, giving the _Diabound _a wide berth. "Target's up ahead," he says, with a cursory nod in the direction of the ship they intend to plunder. "Speck on the horizon right there."

"Uh-huh." Sure enough: a vaguely ship-shaped blemish adorns the distance; its envelope is vaguely discernable amidst trails of smoke. Judging by nothing in particular other than visual surmise, the craft looks to be larger than usual; a thoroughly good sign if Marik's admittedly average eyesight is to be believed. No use raiding a shabby old rustbucket. Thankfully, this target seems more or less rust-free.

They plunge through the air, skimming headlong through a thick, vaporous layer of cloud; keeping low makes sense, but Marik suspects Bakura's choice of path is more deliberate than that. They are virtually flying blindfold. This is most certainly a cheap thrill.

"You know," says Marik, conversationally, "it sort of helps to see where you're flying." He is confronted by a contemptuous glare. "Eyes on the sky, Bakura," he says, savouring the moral high ground for the fleeting second that it is in his control.

"We're lost and in distress," Bakura reminds him, teeth gritted. "I'm trying to look helpless. What better way to look helpless than incompetent flying?"

Well. _That _particular excuse seems suspiciously neat, but Marik lets it slide with little more than a sceptical sniff. At any rate, his partner angles the ship so that they emerge from the worst of the haze, allowing their surroundings to slide partially back into view. Including the target. Marik whistles, as they speed closer. "Better than I thought." The blimp is expensive – all elegant lines, reflective surfaces and a sleek, streamlined hull. Huge, too – a mobile home, like the _Diabound _in a fashion, though, if Marik is to be brutally honest, outwardly much more prepossessing. The conspicuous absence of equally conspicuous scarlet certainly helps. Bakura seems to detect this hint of disloyalty in Marik's face and scowls briefly. (Damn. How does he _do _that, anyway?)

"Send out the distress flare," Bakura orders as they approach.

Marik snorts, good-naturedly. "So _now _I'm deemed competent?"

"Tch. You get to play with fire, don't you? Why exactly are you complaining?"

"...True."

Bakura tosses him a match from his top pocket. Luckily, this airship does not stay aloft with the help of a gas envelope; instead, it is a steam-powered mechanism - an old KaibaCorp model. That said, it seems unlikely that Bakura would show any regard for the hazards of bringing highly volatile matches into contact with an equally flammable machine. He did, after all, apparently bring a box of matches on board the _Diabound _– a ship that is most _definitely _gas-powered. Marik debates the pros and cons of making a fuss about this _laissez faire _attitude to hypothetical explosions, but concludes that life is much too short to confront Bakura with every single one of his life-risking ventures, and why bother criticising just the one when there are plenty more to discover? Sometimes, you have to choose your battles carefully.

Instead, he lights the fuse of the flare - a puny thing, designed to exude bright red sparks; the universal pilots' symbol for distress – opens the ship's hatch and lets it soar. _Fly, little firework – be free! Heh_. He grins to himself, watching cheerfully as a fizzing burst of crimson fireflies permeate the sky.

Time to pray that the passengers aboard the ship are as gullible as they are rich. Or, at any rate, gullible _enough_. Reasonably foolhardy would be sufficient – and, to Marik's mind, this describes the majority of the law-abiding population.

Bakura decelerates, allowing their airship to drift. It occurs to Marik that they never took the time to settle for a believable story to feed to their 'rescuers'; the only discussion that might have approached planning for this venture ended in the careless decision to spin some story or other about an attack from savage flying sea turtles. (Which, depending on exactly _how _gullible these people are, might just suffice. In a pinch, at least.) Probably it is much easier just to improvise once they are picked up. Moreover, it is vital that Bakura be refused a chance to get a word in edgeways. There is something about him that is inherently untrustworthy, even to the oblivious observer. Undoubtedly he will sabotage even the most plausible of excuses; sadly, in light of this, flying sea turtles are looking increasingly untenable by the minute.

Slowly, almost grudgingly, the ship-mansion turns.

_Success. _

"So what's our story?" asks Marik, on the off-chance that Bakura has devised something brilliant in the past ten minutes.

"I'm all for Plan Sea Turtle," he shrugs.

"Ah. Wonderful."

They wait in relative content for the ship to approach. Which – albeit with irritating lack of haste - it does. Soon, they can see the pilot, a pleasant-looking, gray-haired, vaguely overweight man who casually signals for them to board. Unbelievable, but unmistakeable.

"Seriously?" says Marik, incredulous. "Just like that?"

"Gift horses, Marik," says Bakura, warningly.

"Idiotic expression," mutters Marik. "But fine – let's go."

The airship is duly steered into the open terminal.

Once the hatch is closed to the air, Bakura and Marik slide out of their seats and tumble through the door of the vehicle. Regaining composure with impressive speed, they straighten. Waiting to greet them stands a middle-aged woman – Albian, as far as Marik can tell – well-dressed, straight-backed and seemingly apprehensive.

Marik loses no time in stumbling forwards to wring her hands with exaggerated gratitude. "We're saved – the gods are merciful after all! Madam, your kindness is much appreciated. My name is Namu, and this is my partner, Baka. Our ship malfunctioned, suddenly, midair. No explanation; no trigger. Without your aid, we would have been doomed. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this display of generosity! All we ask is for help with repairs, and some food, if you could possibly spare it; we have been drifting without course or provision for days." He takes a chance and chooses to deliver this speech in eager Kemetic. Bakura gives a terse nod by way of punctuation.

Just as hoped for, the woman is overwhelmed, but not uncomprehending. She answers the torrent of thanks in a halting approximation of Marik's native tongue. "That will be no difficulty. We are about to take lunch, as it happens. My name is Dora Carraway. Come – I will introduce you to my family."

She leads; they follow; both of them have considerable trouble stifling their smirks. On the way through lavish passageways, Bakura manages to hiss: "You realise you've named me 'idiot' in Japanese?"

"Oh, I realise," Marik murmurs back, smugly. There follows what sounds like a subdued sort of growl from his companion.

They are ushered into a spacious kitchen and dining area, where a scattering of people sit: a stately looking man introduced as Charles Carraway, and a handful of assorted teenage sons and daughters, whose names Marik decides from the outset are completely irrelevant. The parents seem mildly irritated by their unsolicited company; the children overjoyed. Marik suspects that this unprecedented situation is the first lull in the tedium of their decorous, money-drenched existence that they have experienced in a considerable amount of time. Outwardly, he presents a veneer of humility and bashful charm - mostly in an attempt to offset the unimpressed aloofness that Bakura cannot seem to disguise, regardless of the company in which he finds himself. Meanwhile, he allows his gaze to surreptitiously skitter towards the doorway, in which he is certain resides a flicker of shadow - evidence to suggest another presence. Somewhat worrying, that. A soft nudge under the table demonstrates that Bakura is also aware of this.

They learn that the family has been vacationing abroad; now, they return to England. (Indeed, they return to England several valuables lighter, thinks Marik, wryly.) Dora Carraway turns out to be shy, submissive and tremulous; Charles a garrulous, conservative paterfamilias_; _the children uniformly flaxen-haired, softly spoken and wholly generic.

In truth, the plan had been to bring on the piracy once they were face to face with most of the passengers. However, an important consideration outweighs these somewhat haphazard schemes. Something that defies all prior preparation, ensnaring the hapless thieves in its illicit delights.

"Pass the veal," demands Bakura.

Lunch turns out to be unexpectedly _good. _

Throughout the meal, they exchange various glances, ranging from emphatic, to guilty, to resigned. Plunder can wait, reasons Marik. The promised lemon and raspberry sorbet, by contrast – certainly cannot.

In between bites, Bakura regales the children with assorted travellers' tales; currently he is relating what he claims to be a native Egyptian fable.

"Once upon a time, there was a... princess. No, don't groan; stories always have to begin with princesses. They have further to fall. Now, this particular princess was exceptionally rebellious, as I am reliably informed by many such tales that royalty is wont to be. Dancing at balls, engaging in diplomatic peace talks, throwing a coin to the odd beggar and various other princessley things... well, doing all of this bored her to tears. She felt confined within a pre-established role. In fact, she felt her whole life had been planned out ahead of her. And so, every evening when she could get away in time, she joined up to help a group of – elephant smugglers."

"Do they even _have _elephants in Egypt?" inquires one of the boys, awed.

"No," says Bakura, shortly, a little put out by the interruption. "That's why they have to import them."

"'S'true," Marik collaborates, briefly.

"And where there is demand... there is always a black market. Thus – elephant smugglers." The children seem relatively satisfied by this explanation. Bakura continues. "However, these were not ordinary elephant smugglers. No – their leader had great powers of heka."

Marik chokes irritably on his coffee. "Surely you mean _alchemy, _Baka?"

"No, my dear Namu – I'm sure I mean heka. Now, whether it was deliberate or whether it was accidental is of no consequence; the leader put a curse on the princess which meant she could never return home to her family at the palace. She was left to wander the streets of Cairo at night, unable to rejoin society; aware that she would be shunned by all should she seek human connection. However, she had her pride; she refused to return to the elephant smugglers for help. Instead, she packed up a few scant belongings and set off walking, journeying as far as her delicate feet would carry her. Yet, having lived in a palace all her life, her survival skills left something to be desired; indeed, they were quite lamentable. The first day, she tore her dress on various winding plants until it resembled ribbons. The second day, she was attacked by bandits and lost the few belongings she possessed. The third day, she found herself in a desert, bereft of food, water or hope."

"I think I remember this bit," muses Marik. "Isn't this the part where she meets the clown?"

"_No,_" replies Bakura. With a dramatic flourish, he stands, allowing his coat to flare out (though not so far as to reveal the cutlasses stashed against its lining). "This is where she meets the _demon." _He claws at the air, fiercely.

"Oh," says Marik, calmly setting his cup down on its saucer. "My mistake."

"The demon had been wandering the desert in search of souls to steal and devour. He had already dispatched with the bandits. Now, he saw the princess, whose dust-streaked face formed an exquisite mask of terror." He pauses, melodramatically.

The children hold their breath.

"But," Marik supplies, helpfully, "despite his rather uncouth exterior, the demon was moved by the princess' outstanding beauty, still quite unmarred by the trials of her journey."

"That's not how I remember the story," grumbles Bakura.

"Maybe you just heard it wrong," says Marik, sweetly.

"Yes. Well. Anyway. The demon accordingly swept the princess up in his cloak, which was thick and black as the night, and acted as a prison from which she had no hope of escape. Rather than devouring her soul, he whisked her away to the underworld – where, no doubt, she was exposed to all manner of licentious debauchery. But the princess, despite it all, found that after a few months – she didn't mind. She didn't care that the demon was evil. She didn't care that he had murdered countless innocents. She didn't even mind that he had a nasty habit of leaving his dirty socks on the floor of the bedroom. She became reconciled to her new way of life. And thus, a transformation occurred: she became a demon herself. Evil is, after all, merely the opposite of good. In of itself, it has no steadfast definition. It is simply what good is not. And the princess could no longer be good – not when she had abandoned the structure of society, and of conventional morality. No. In abandoning that which is good – that is to say, that which is considered to be the norm – she became evil. There could be no return; she did not even desire to return. Instead, in time, she and the demon returned to the surface in search of souls with which to satiate their hellish appetites."

"And did she ever lift the curse?" enquires the smallest child, thumb poised earnestly against her bottom lip.

"Perhaps one day she will," says Bakura, enigmatically. "For now, she contents herself with wreaking havoc on earth. She may even visit you in your nightmares - so be careful; don't be fooled by her gentle guise. She's a monster through and through."

Marik glances up at him. "_Through _and through?" he asks, impishly.

"Yes. Utterly," says Bakura, deadpan.

Marik may be mistaken, but the children appear to be shivering somewhat.

Carraway is reading yesterday's newspaper – a little-known English broadsheet, _The Portent. _Marik, sensing a kindred spirit, attempts conversation. "Anything of interest in there?"

"I'll say," he replies, indignantly. "There was a terrorist attack on the Albian King. Anarchists, one assumes." He reasserts the paper with a contemptuous snap. "The temerity. To target Sophia's emissary!"

Marik's eyes widen. "An attack? What happened?" A slow, delighted smile spreads across his face. Sedition in England? _Brilliant._ Long time coming, in response to what borders on absolute monarchy. Finally they might follow the French precedent.

... Not that '89 ended altogether successfully for France. The motivations, at any rate, were pure. Initially. Yet now, as a moderate republic shakily recovering from its pretensions to empire, it is the closest Europe has to inspiration – not the least hope.

The momentary flare of anger fades from Carraway's face, and he is forced to reply: "Er, nothing much. Nobody was killed, least of all His Majesty. But not for lack of trying! Shots were fired; a bomb was set off... shocking that it should have been allowed to happen." His expression darkens. "Hanging's too good for those people."

Coolly, Marik sits back. "Well. I'd imagine once all leaders are up against the wall, and many more have gone to the guillotine, perhaps the King will judge that hanging is more than good enough for _him_." Smoothly, he folds his arms. Cue a pointed, challenging look – direct and obstinate. Somehow far too honest to blend successfully with the ruse.

Bakura's gleam of a grin is like sunlight on the edge of a knife, as Carraway splutters into his teacup.

"You are a republican, sir?" Carraway manages to choke out. Dora Carraway flinches, as though the word constitutes a pinprick.

"An egalitarian, _sir," _replies Marik. He smiles, pleasantly. "Much the same thing, only more so."

The Carraways exchange ill-disguised glances of concern. Clearly they are panicking as to exactly what kind of guests they have unwittingly invited over their threshold. Oh, they don't know the _half _of it.

Sensing his cue, Bakura rises from his seat. "And like all good egalitarians," he continues, revealing the twin cutlasses – _flick – flick – _two fluid motions of the wrist, and then both are at Charles Carraway's throat, "we are highly principled. Chiefly, we subscribe to one key tenet: the redistribution of wealth." His tongue clicks briefly against his teeth. "And we are always eager for a chance to put ideology into practice."

"In other words," says Marik, withdrawing his pistols whilst mourning his unfinished sorbet, "it would be advisable to provide us with all valuables on this ship. Money. Antiques." He nudges the edge of the gun at Dora's earlobe, from which hangs a crystal droplet. She whimpers. "Jewellery." He grants them a second of respite, absorbing the fraught silence. Then: "_now, _please."

Dora maybe makes a motion to comply, but neither thief could testify this for certain, as they are much too preoccupied with a blur of movement, a brute wrench of force, and the wholly unexpected experience of being flung across the room. For an instant, Marik sees stars, crashing to the corner of the kitchen. Then, he opens his eyes, staggers to his feet and sees two bodyguards, and Bakura huddled in the corner, in a similar state of incapacitation. The children huddle terrified at the table.

"Did you think," says Carraway, in a voice that trembles with outrage, "that my family and I would travel unprotected? The Carraways? Through skies infested with air-trash such as yourselves? I think not."

Both of the newcomers are bulky, fierce – but, mercifully, unarmed. Nevertheless. _Ouch. _

"The last thing I would do," Carraway continues to pontificate, "is fly without insurance against murderous thieves..."

Bakura chooses this moment to deliver a forceful upwards kick to the closest hired goon. Following suit, Marik aims a punch at the other; both withdraw for a moment, cursing. The thieves step away until they are back to back, shoulders lightly touching. Bakura leans over, cutlasses crossed at his chest in a makeshift shield. His eyes meet Marik's in a frisson of anticipation and an outbreak of mirrored grins. Muted noises from outside the room seem to signify the approach of more guards; damn, this family is paranoid and, on the whole, justifiably so.

"Ready?" trills Marik, happily.

"Heh," says his partner. "Ready."

**xXx**

Ryou stares hopelessly at the Diabound's control room. Gears, levers and elaborate maps – possibly decorative – line the walls, framing an expansive window, which seems to have been built solely to give the pilot an uninhibited view of their impending doom. Not the merest hint of a suggestion presents itself as to how Ryou might fly the ship. Which is why, after a fleeting moment of agony spent gazing in terror upon a steadily approaching cloud, Ryou promptly gives up, deciding that, should he put any effort into controlling the ship, the inevitable crash landing will occur sooner, rather than later.

Thus, he assumes that the Diabound will simply drift, should he make no attempt to steer it, and closes the control room door firmly, if gingerly, behind him.

In the ensuing hours, Ryou has no problem busying himself with chores. One of the first things he was taught to do, after pick-pocketing and causing grievous bodily harm, was to wash dishes, the thought process behind this being that it would relieve Marik of the duty, halving the amount of chipped crockery in the _Diabound's_ cupboards. Ryou finds the task a little dull, but it is a small price to pay for a moment of solitude. The _Diabound_ is small, and, though he has never had an overwhelming desire for it, privacy is severely lacking.

Yes, thinks Ryou, he will spend a nice, quiet day, alone aboard the _Diabound_, attempting not to think about encroaching fiery destruction.

After he makes sure that the plates are spotless, the floorboards are clean and the numerous books scattered waywardly about the ship are free of dust, Ryou finds himself at something of a loss. There is a pack of playing cards resting on the glass table in the living room, but Ryou only knows how to play a single game that calls for one person, and he has despised solitaire since Bakura first taught him how to play, if only because he is terrible at it. The books are still objects to clean, rather than pore over – the thieves treat them with an almost hallowed respect, short only of buying shelves, but Ryou is thoroughly illiterate. Even going out on the deck is fraught with danger: low hanging cloud is something that he has been advised to avoid at all costs, and he has no desire to learn why.

The door to Marik and Bakura's room seems curiously intriguing, largely due to the fact that Ryou knows, without having ever asked, that entering is strictly prohibited. Trespassing, he understands, is impolite at best. However, he does live with outlaws, and besides, it might be useful to know a little more about them…

Fortunately, his stomach elicits a growl of discontent before he can further debate breaking the unspoken rule of privacy, and Ryou turns away from the door and towards the kitchen, ignoring the tantalising allure of the unknown in favour of finding something edible. He sates his hunger with brown bread – plain, perhaps, but he is loathe to touch any of the other, more colourful foods available to him, given that he does not yet know whether Bakura and Marik include poisoning in their varied repertoire of crime. Having fed himself, he lapses back into boredom.

Now might be a pertinent time for the Diabound's imminent crash to take place.

Throwing himself onto a stern oak armchair, Ryou contemplates the kitchen. There is absolutely nothing for him to do. It sets his teeth on edge. Noticing that one leg of his seat is very slightly shorter than the others, he leans forwards – and back. The chair rocks. For a moment, this is the height of entertainment – better even than the dying house fly that has been throwing itself repeatedly against the kitchen window: his previous source of amusement.

He rocks again, throwing his body weight into the chair. If he scratches the floor, it will be the cause of much whining from his hosts, but it might at least be satisfying-

A streak of motion out of the corner of his eye, and Ryou is powerless to stop the clatter of several objects toppling from shelves, upset by his movement. Fortunately, nothing appears to be harmed, and Ryou hastily replaces the objects. The first is a heavy breadboard, which was balanced precariously close to Ryou's head. The second, a glossy tin painted with bright, incomprehensible words in Albian (upon opening it, he finds the last few dregs of some dried tea leaves – and, rather inexplicably, a large sapphire ring). The third and final object to fall, and by far the most intriguing, is a plain wooden box, a few hand spans across, and closed with a heavy gold clasp – though not locked.

Deciding that digging through whatever is stashed above the Diabound's stove is not a great invasion of anyone's privacy (and quite possibly a display of initiative, given his status as an apprentice of thievery), Ryou opens the lid. He is not sure what he expects. Miscellaneous kitchen utensils, perhaps, or an array of valuable foreign spices. At best, gold, or jewels: loot from some past venture, shoved haphazardly into a box in front of an array of jam jars in a vague attempt to make it appear less conspicuous.

Well, he is correct on one account: what he finds is definitely gold.

The two objects are polished to a heightened sheen; ripples of light pierce through the dim cast of the kitchen. They share the same lustre as every piece of gold littered about the Diabound, only curiously intensified: the heady gleam of conspicuous wealth. They are two necklaces, Ryou realises, but so heavy and elaborate that it was not immediately apparent. Something about them is infinitely fascinating. One is a perfect circle of metal, five sharpened pendants dangling dangerously from its edge, whilst the other is a Wedjat, elaborate and beautifully crafted. Not a single dent or blemish mars either surface.

If this is what he can find in the kitchen, Ryou hardly dares to think what other treasure might be hidden about the ship. Reluctantly, he closes the box, replacing it on its shelf next to the preserves. He will, he decides, ask Bakura and Marik about the necklaces. There has to be a story behind them, and Ryou intends to find out what it is, regardless of the fact that whatever inquiry he makes will invariably be warped beyond recognition, mocked, and then twisted into a political debate.

On second thoughts, he will wait a while before asking.

A loud crash shocks him from his reverie for the second time in one day – Ryou narrows his eyes. This particular noise sounds less like misplaced kitchen utensils and more like the return of the thieves. He pads into the hall to investigate.

"_I got a gal acrosh the shea, she's an Albon- Alban- Whashamajiggy beauty an' she shays to me…_"

Ryou blinks. "You're late," he says, after a moment.

Marik and Bakura are grinning. They have been highly successful – that much is alarmingly evident. Marik is carrying a small sack, the dull brown cloth offset by a gold chain dangling casually from within. Both thieves are decked in jewels, wrists jangling with delicate silver, throats glistening with every imaginable shade of gold. A pair of purple stones hang at Bakura's ears, and Ryou thinks absently that they go nicely with his hair, before returning to his initial observations: that the thieves are _streaked with blood_.

"You're getting the wordsh wrong," says Bakura, shaking his head pointedly. "It doeshn't go like that. You heard the- the- the _posh_ version."

They are also, against all odds, drunk. Exceedingly so. Ryou briefly considers that there might be a rational way for Bakura and Marik to have spent an entire day on board the ship they ransacked, managed to consume copious amounts of alcohol, rob the occupants blind and come back bleeding from a dozen minor injuries. Presumably in that order. Then he dismisses the notion on the grounds that injecting _sense _into proceedings such as these amounts to flawed methodology from the outset.

He thinks, somewhat abstractedly, that drunkenness is rarely _this _incomprehensible.

He then realises that approximately half of all of this has been cultivated for the purposes of show.

"_Now wonsh I had a gal, an' her head –_ hair, it'sh hair not head, hah, or it doeshn't rhyme, see? _Her hair wash red!_ Hah, it'sh funny, Marik, 'caush your hair'sh all gold an' mine'sh all whi- gre- it'sh all a shtupid colour…"

Sea shanties, Ryou realises, are dangerous things.

"'_Twash curly all over exshept for her head_… hah, hah, and that'sh funny becaush-"

Ryou intervenes. "I didn't know how to steer the ship, so I just left it. I was hoping that you wouldn't mind."

Bakura turns to stare at him - with disconcerting speed, given his current inability to pronounce 's's. He cocks his head to the side, as though trying to remember something, lapsing into silence.

"It runsh better when we don't do anything," says Marik, blithely, before collapsing against the wall of the ship in uncontrollable giggles. "Or – heh, heh heh – when you kick the control panel. Righ', Bakura, righ'?" Gasping for breath, he dumps his stash of stolen goods on the floor, stumbling towards the chaise longue. Ryou is torn between following in order to save him from breaking his neck, and staying to snap Bakura out of the stupor into which he has fallen, which seems to be some form of bizarre staring competition with the ship's back wall.

In the end, he compromises, and, dragging Bakura with him, manages to settle both thieves on the chaise longue. Hopefully, they will pass out quietly, and Ryou will not have to deal with more gleefully exaggerated drunken antics than necessary. Gently, he detaches Bakura's clawlike grip on his arm, and takes a few steps back.

He is fixed with two dejected looks of unmitigated sorrow.

"You're…" Marik looks, for all the world, like a child who has been told that their favourite toy is broken. "…going?" If, of course, that child was slightly cross eyed.

"They always do," says Bakura, with remarkable lucidity, before throwing one arm over the back of the sofa, burrowing his head in the upholstery, and collapsing into what appears to be sleep. Sleep, or catatonia.

Marik pouts. "Shtay," he commands regally.

Against all his better judgement, Ryou sits himself between the thieves. Marik glows with happiness. Bakura promptly starts snoring, before rearranging himself so that his head is on Ryou's lap. Ryou hopes that neither have lost too much blood, and wonders where Marik's pistols went. He has no doubt that Bakura has somehow managed to hide his cutlasses in his coat, improbable as the action might be for anyone else.

"Mm. I knew we kept you for a reason." Marik rests his chin on Ryou's shoulder, each breath sending a flicker of warmth into his ear. "You're a good cushion."

"Well," says Ryou, pondering this, "at least I'm not a demon."

"No!" cries Marik, and Ryou jumps, wincing at the noise. Bakura mumbles something and wraps a lopsided arm around his shoulder, before seeming to find this too much effort, and allowing it to fall back by his side. "No," Marik amends, more quietly, face contorted in thought, "you are _not_ a cushion."

"Oh," says Ryou, interested. "Am I not?"

"No," says Marik, speaking more quickly, "you are not, becaush… becaush…" he waves one arm in the air, as though this might illustrate his point. Ryou gives him a blank look. "Becaush you are a human being!"

Bakura makes a sound of unease, and Ryou drapes an arm on his shoulder, figuring that the thief cannot hold the display of indignity against him whilst asleep. Marik does not notice, which is good, because it might result in mockery, if Ryou has learnt a thing about his hosts since arriving on the Diabound.

"Human beings have rightsh," Marik says, seeming incredibly excited about the idea. "Cushions don't. And you don't even know it yet becaush you're ignorant." His expression melts into distress, and Ryou gets the strange feeling that he is being condescending. "Not stupid, though. That remainsh to be seen." Marik leans closer, as though imparting a great secret. Ryou holds his breath. "Demon-cushion-person, I don't think you're stupid. I think you're really smart, becaush, becaush…" Halfway through this admission, he seems to lose focus and falter. The resultant concern dissipates almost as soon as it blossoms. He closes his eyes, content.

Ryou waits for a reason, but it does not appear to be forthcoming. Bakura yawns, breaking from sleep for a moment (given the amount of noise Marik has made, Ryou feels that this is hardly unjustifiable). "I'm all bloody." He wrinkles his nose. Ryou prays that he does not notice that his arm is around him. There is only so much biting sarcasm he can handle in one day.

"It's your fault," says Marik, without opening his eyes. "You're so melodramatatatic. Stabbing people and stuff."

"You stabbed someone?" Ryou asks, in mild alarm. He wonders why it had not occurred to him that some of the blood might not be the thieves' own.

"No," spits Bakura. "Damned kneecaps." He slumps before Ryou can question him further.

"He's annoyed because I don't let him murder people," chimes Marik, and Ryou looks at him quizzically. "He was in a big, epic battle with a guard person, and I shot him in the kneecaps." A pause. "The guard, not Bakura."

"I gathered," Ryou admits.

"'M going to sleep now," Marik informs him. "Don't move." Sighing quietly, he snuggles his nose into Ryou's hair. Bakura is motionless. Ryou gives it until Marik begins drooling, and gingerly wriggles out of his position. He will not spend the rest of the night on the chaise longue. Perhaps Bakura and Marik are willing to do so, but they have the excuse of being exceptionally inebriated.

As he edges towards his room, Marik calls out, and for a moment, he suspects that he has been caught, but a glance back reveals that the thief is wholly unaware his absence. Indeed, he is conversing quite earnestly with the air.

"D'you ever think life is like… it's like… like…" An incomprehensible mumble, and then: "D'you ever get _lonely,_ Ryou?" Ryou feels inexplicably guilty, but continues his progress. There is only one floorboard that might creak loud enough to wake Bakura, and he is almost sure that he has passed it. Meanwhile, Marik seems adequately absorbed by his phantom conversation to take no notice of Ryou's departure.

"…No… You wouldn't."

Foot meeting the threshold, he throws himself behind his door. Ryou has no energy left to deal with Marik and Bakura tonight. He is sure that they will be perfectly peaceful, collapsed like toddlers amongst their stolen, golden playthings. He cannot quite bring himself to forget the ease with which they would throw themselves over him and confess their insecurities, but he does have some semblance of tact. Tomorrow, he will allow them their usual sardonic demeanours – and, in all likelihood, will feel as intimidated by them as he always has.

Odd, that he cannot think of anything that he would enjoy more.

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- Yep, this world **_**does **_**contain heavier-than-air travel, but only in the smallest of airships. The main mode of travel is gas-propelled envelope... hence Marik's (slight) trepidation at the prospect of **_**fire **_**on board the ****Diabound**_**... **_

**- Hands up if you spotted the veiled Kuroshitsuji reference! **

**- In answer to a review from Admireree: Ryou is actually eighteen in this – the same age as Yugi and Anzu. Bakura and Mai are twenty four; Marik, twenty two; Kaiba and Atem twenty; Mokuba eleven. The young vibe could be Ryou's lack of experience and general bemusement at his situation - or possibly because Aluminium, who has primary veto over his characterisation, tends to specialise in childlike characters. **


	8. Chapter 8

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...**_

**Well, there's very little in the last chapter that might be relevant to this chapter. Largely because the previous chapter was composed entirely of PIRATES. Nonetheless, summary. So, um, the thieves decide to be pirates. And they go pirating on an airship full of rich, obnoxious OCs. Amidst the piracy, Bakura tells a sweet little totally-not-foreshadowing fairy tale to the children. And then they threaten the entire family for their money. After some minor mishaps, they make their way back to the Diabound with an impressive array of valuables, and an even more impressive array of bloodstains. Ryou, in the meantime, has been exploring the ship; amongst his meanderings, he has identified two, mysterious, shiny-shiny golden necklaces. But no time to dwell on the discovery, for the thieves return, thoroughly and inexplicably drunk. After a totally deep discussion with Marik, Ryou leaves the two in a stupor on the chaise longue. At which point, we ask people in England to please save us from this madness, and they are happy to comply...**

**xXx**

It is, Honda decides, easier than he would have thought. To kill a king, that is.

His king's chamber is in the west of the palace. It is large and airy, with a soft yellow carpet and heavily embroidered curtains that would rustle if he were to make the mistake of standing anywhere near them. Yes: easy. Not a single member of staff watched him slip past, and the door opened with nary a creak after he picked the lock – which was not, he found, a model fit for royalty.

Standing over the prone body of the slumbering king is the easiest thing in the world.

Watching his eyelids flicker with traces of the dreams enacted behind them is perfectly simple.

So why then, Honda wonders, is it so very difficult for him to bring his damned kitchen knife down on the boy king's neck? Honda is not overly patriotic: no more so than any other petty thug on London's streets. And yet, he has the niggling suspicion that it is not the 'king' part of his monarch's title that he has trouble overcoming, but rather the 'boy'.

He will count to three, and then he will bring the blade down. Or perhaps not, for he reaches three with little to no change in general demeanour. He will think of the reward, and then he will bring the blade down. But what is gold, compared to the eternal damnation of a bloodstained conscious? No, he will have to pretend that it is not a person lying helpless under the silken sheets, and then he will bring the blade down.

"Why… who… What are you doing?" King Yugi is awake, eyes wide and desperate, fingers splayed and clawing at the blankets. He is pale in the chink of moonlight that the gap in the curtains provides, and paler still from terror, and inexpressibly human – nothing like the stern figurehead of Hond's imagination.

The blade shakes in his hands until the tremors are visible, and Honda wills them to _please_ stop, feeling strangely embarrassed at his own ineptitude in front of one who is, for all intents and purposes, dead.

Then he harshly smothers the king's mouth with one shaking palm, pressing him down with the other, because the merest hint of a whisper might give him away.

To his surprise, King Yugi squirms. He rolls and kicks and bites at Honda, who reels back in shock and horror at the sheer, stubborn will to live. Blue eyes, previously large and childish, narrow, and the king, just out of reach, looks at Honda with the expression of one betrayed. "You tried to kill me!"

_Shut up,_ Honda wants to say, and it takes him a moment to realise that he is allowed to do so – now that he has attempted to kill a king, mild acts of treason have less of an impact. He is irredeemable. "If you don't shut up, I _will_ kill you."

Again, the earnest eyes and furrowed forehead reveal an odd hint of confusion at this treachery. King Yugi is obviously astounded that anyone would want to hurt him, and Honda could laugh at the whole situation. A useless assassin for a powerless child king. Perhaps he was the right man for the job after all.

"Why?" asks the king, enunciating the syllable very carefully, with the 'h' before the 'w'.

"Because I damn well want to," says Honda, and feels a little better. After all, he is the one with the knife.

"But… how will you get away with it?" The question is voiced with sincere curiosity.

"No one will ever know it was me."

For a time, King Yugi considers this reply, and he does not break eye contact for a second. Honda notices shapes in his peripheral vision, strewn across the floor. Strange, elaborate boards; animals; cards: toys. He wishes that he had not looked.

"You haven't killed me yet," says Yugi (Honda has ceased to think of him as anything as impersonal as 'king'), as though imploring him to finish the job, for his own sake at the very least.

"Are kings supposed to talk like that?" Honda evades the question. If he can buy himself a little time, he might be able to go through with this.

"No," answers Yugi, wincing. "I don't speak properly. And I really hate giving speeches. And I think most of the balls I've been to are boring." He smiles, confidingly. "I like games, though."

It all seems a rush of unwanted information, and most of it passes over Honda's head and out the crack beneath the door, saturated with lamplight from the corridor beyond. He can do little but answer in kind, though it seems inappropriate and awkward. "I'm a terrible assassin. I should have killed you by now. I've never killed anyone in my life. I was picked for the job by mistake, I think." This admission just seems to _flow; _he makes no conscious decision to reveal his dilemma – merely he opens his mouth, and there it is; the information presents itself with unsettling ease.

Yugi nods, as if this is the most interesting thing he has ever heard. "Maybe you should stop being an assassin." He cringes, as though he has made a terrible faux pas. "Only if you want to, though."

"Sure," says Honda, trying very hard not to think about what will happen to him when he is inevitably caught in Yugi's bedroom with a kitchen knife in hand. Now is the time to act. "And what would I do instead?"

"Well," muses Yugi, "you could work in my soup kitchen."

"_Anything_ but that."

"Then you could be… my personal guard! I have one, but I could do with another." The sheer guilelessness of the remark is startling.

"And if I was?" asks Honda, responding with none of Yugi's hope or cheer. "I work for… a gang. I doubt they would be happy with me. Neither would my employer, for that matter."

"I would protect you!" Yugi cries, as though it is the most obvious answer in all the world. As though Honda is his oldest, most intimate friend, and Yugi is a master in the way of armed combat.

As though dreams flicker easily into reality with none of the muddle or disarray of reason obscuring their crystalline clarity.

Honda settles onto the corner of the bed, and realises with a sudden rush of vertigo that if he does not accept the offer, he has no future at all. He is as dead as Yugi was (before Honda realised that he was not). "Yes?" Yugi prompts, and Honda considers that the boy king is very close to his own age, and probably no more a boy than he is. About as well-versed in killing, at any rate.

"Yes," concedes Honda, and is promptly flashed the brightest grin that he has ever seen.

"I suppose I should inform someone that you are here, then," says Yugi, suddenly more formal. "If I do not, they might burst in and assume that you were here to murder me." The way he says it, it sounds for all the world as though the assumption would be false – and, for that matter, most unjust. Unbelievable.

"What will they think of the knife?" Honda asks purely out of curiosity. He suddenly feels very, very tired.

"They won't think anything, if I tell them not to," Yugi answers blithely.

"Ah," says Honda, and it is the last thing that he says for a while, as Yugi opens the door and shouts down the corridor, and servants bustle in from all directions. He is silent throughout Yugi's hurried explanation of where he is to be taken, though that is largely because he is too busy re-evaluating his entire life to be able to concentrate, and it would probably be incoherent if he made the effort to respond.

The rest passes in a blur. He is whisked down corridors that he never knew existed, past startled glances and widened, sleepy eyes, Yugi attempting to follow all the while, waving away any attempts to put him back to bed or, for that matter, to call for guards. Honda allows himself to be dragged, only feeling a twinge of apprehension when someone suggests waking the Regent; Yugi responds with regal certainty that it can wait until morning.

And finally, before anything can make sense, he is pushed into a warm bed, softer than any he has experienced aside from Yugi's. Though he spends a while staring at the wall, waiting for the entire beautiful illusion to dissolve, after a time he realises that, in fact, it will not, and so it does not take long for him to sink into the welcoming arms of sleep.

**xXx**

Morning approaches with all the relentlessness of an overenthusiastic German Shepherd; Ryou's room brightens, and the contours of furniture become distinct. Light is cast on the mismatched stack of wooden crates, open-topped and spilling over with numerous chalices, powders and crystal goblets – no doubt relics of Marik's life as an alchemist, perpetually unpacked and quietly mouldering in storage space. (Ryou imagines that one day he may even pluck up the courage to explore their contents; for now they seem far too foreboding to investigate.)

The shadows are expelled from wooden, worm-ridden bookshelves, all nailed slightly askew, where thick, ponderous manuscripts squat beside gaudy Albian penny-dreadfuls (all one and the same and indistinguishable in their illegibility to Ryou.) The ship judders mildly, and dust is dislodged from various corners, rising in fine, grey plumes only to settle once more, relocated to new crannies.

Gradually, sounds temporarily blanked seep back into Ryou's consciousness: the insistent creak of neglected hinges; the occasional burst of scraping turbulence; the ubiquitous, low, throbbing hum of the engine. The Diaboundseems alive: organic and irritable. Further sleep becomes an impossibility once noise re-establishes its presence.

Accordingly, Ryou brushes off his blankets, slips on a purple, silk-lined dressing gown borrowed from Marik, and stumbles across the ship in the direction of the kitchen door, in faint hope that the thieves will have woken. A cursory glance at the cuckoo clock in the living room reveals that this hope is hardly unreasonable: it is 11:56am; perilously close to what might be deemed lunchtime.

(Marik and Bakura are nothing if not punctilious in their observance of mealtimes; for instance, lunch is to occur no earlier than 12:00 and no later than 1:30. If earlier, Bakura will complain of lack of appetite; if later, Marik begins gnawing at the edges of the furniture. Thus, a happy medium.)

Still, most likely they are recovering from the ill effects of whatever alcoholic substance they miraculously managed to obtain on board the ship they victimised and looted. A quick trip back down the hallway indicates that, yes, the door to their room is indeed firmly closed. Ryou shrugs to himself. So he must be self-sufficient. So what? He will manage.

Padding on the silent balls of his feet, he braves the kitchen.

Behind the door, the table sits adorned with a lavish spread of colourful food, all displayed in sparkling, cut-glass bowls, garnished with sprigs of unrecognisable herbs, and framed with elegant cutlery that Ryou strongly suspects to be newly acquired. At the outskirts of this splash of banquet lie the thieves: Bakura slumped in an odd, glass-pitted chair, head clasped protectively in his hands; Marik stood bouncing on his heels at the side of a tall bowl of fruit - bright and anticipant. Light streams in from the window lattice, warming the room with a delicacy that almost feels like welcome.

"Now that's just unfair," groans Bakura through his fingers. "I wake up to a throbbing, _screaming _headache – like a lecture from some virtuous angel – and the wretch gets to sleep in longer than either of us?" He turns vaguely to Marik, seemingly appealing to his sense of justice.

"I... thought you were still asleep," murmurs Ryou, nonplussed.

Bakura flinches theatrically at the noise. Marik surreptitiously shakes his head. "The rustle of the bedclothes was disturbing him," he explains, in the softest of tones.

Bakura emits a pained sort of whining sound.

"So!" says Marik, breezily. "Breakfast?"

Ryou takes a tentative seat.

"Take as much as possible," says Marik, ladling generous heaps of fruit and honey into his own bowl. "We got all of this from the other ship last night, but Bakura refuses to eat anything – "

"'T'd _poison _me..."

"So it's just the two of us, and a whole mountain of luxuries. Look at this, demon child. Strawberries!" He proffers a few, large and crimson. "Ah, the joys of being able to afford _anything _by virtue of never paying!" he pronounces; a playful scattering of quasi-philosophy.

Ryou eyes the food. "I don't recognise most of this," he says, dubiously.

"I know," says Marik, with relish, skewering a chunk of cantaloupe. "Isn't it great? Gods, the rich subsist on an alien diet alongside everything else." He nibbles daintily at the melon.

"And what are we, if not rich?" drawls Bakura, painstakingly. Then winces, massaging his temples.

"We're not anything at all," says Marik, insistently. "We stand outside all definition or category. A non-law unto ourselves."

"Tch. It's too early for your self-delusion, brat," says Bakura, decisively. "I can barely stomach that when awake, fed and sober, let alone drowsy, nauseous and hung over."

Marik does not seem offended by this expostulation, merely good-naturedly resigned. His only comment is: "Heh. That almost rhymed." The two exchange sharp, playful glances. Bakura then reclines once more, eyes firmly lidded, arms tucked behind his neck as a makeshift pillow.

Amidst all this, Ryou is struggling to locate any food with which he is familiar, being somewhat distrustful of the rest. Cautiously, he picks at a tureen of grapes. Marik, noticing his reluctance, sidles over with a plate of green fruit. "Kiwi, demon child," he says, holding it aloft for Ryou's inspection. "Not poisonous or harmful in any way, I promise. Actually quite delicious."

Ryou hesitates. Not due to any concerns regarding the food itself; more owing to his residual traces of moral integrity. True, he has accepted the hospitality of thieves; nonetheless, he cannot say he feels comfortable eating food so recently stolen. Most likely it is contradictory and hypocritical, but it entails a level of complicity he is not certain he wishes to take on. Here seems to be an area of crossroads – accepting the spoils of piracy would incriminate him past the point of no return. The pick-pocketing lessons could easily be dismissed as sport; here, he is bidden to comply directly. A silly scruple – but troubling nonetheless.

"I'm not lying," says Marik, with a breath of laughter. "Here." Delicately, he picks up a slice and brings it to Ryou's lips.

Recoiling indignantly, Ryou squeaks: "I'm not a child; I don't need to be hand-fed!" He brushes Marik's arm away, with some force. Marik seems to find this entire process highly amusing, and chuckles as he ducks out of reach.

Bakura, peering through half-lidded eyes, gives them a sardonic sidelong glance. "Play nicely, you two," he mutters.

A little sullenly, Ryou spears another piece of kiwi fruit on a silver (and _definitely _new) fork. He takes a defiant bite. So be it. From now on, he shall be a criminal – rich, amoral and free.

Later on, Marik occupies the chaise-longue in the living room, sprawled lengthways, heavy novel in one hand; gold paper knife in the other, ready to separate the pages. He is halfway through, and deeply immersed – so much so that, rather than pushing him out of the way to take a place on his favourite seat, Bakura simply grunts and falls back into a nearby armchair. Ryou takes a risk and sits close, propping himself against the leg of the chair. He is fascinated by this man, who is such a creature of contradiction, alternately teasing and aloof, and cannot help but feel the urge to puzzle him out. His headache seems to have receded, at any rate, judging by the gradual reduction in bitter complaints, so now might be a perfect opportunity to learn. Peering up at Bakura, he notes that he has prompted a smirk, but no outward sign of contempt; Ryou is safe from scorn for the moment.

But not from light raillery, it seems. "Still in your dressing gown, wretch? Our resident aesthete would despair, were he not buried in Dostoevsky's latest." A wry nod in Marik's direction. "As it is, you're safe, but sloppy."

Ryou shrugs. "This is much finer than anything I ever wore before meeting the two of you," he argues.

"The colour suits him!" Marik chips in offhandedly from the left, before returning to his book.

Bakura sighs, gustily. "Outnumbered, then, am I? This had better not be a sign of things to come."

Marik laughs appreciatively, without looking up.

Dryly, Bakura raises an eyebrow: _and now I _am _worried. _Then, unfazed, he extracts a dog-eared pack of cards from the top pocket of his Albian dress-coat.

"I am not playing solitaire with you again," says Ryou, firmly. "I won't fall for it twice; there's no way at all that can be a two player game. And you were cheating, anyway."

Bakura's face is suddenly both dark and subtly dangerous. "How about fifty two card pickup?" he suggests, silkily, meditatively thumbing the deck.

"I'm not falling for that one again, either!" insists Ryou, heatedly.

Bakura chuckles. "All right. How about I show you a trick, instead?"

"That would be preferable," says Ryou, with dignity.

"Then watch." He takes the card deck in one hand, and shuffles it mid-air: a line of cards flies from hand to hand in one continuous stream.

("Show-off," says Marik, still not looking up.)

Ryou stares, entranced. "_Teach me." _

"How optimistic. Given your uncanny prowess and speed at learning how to steal a wallet, I do wonder if it's completely warranted."

Ryou registers that he is being casually insulted, but brushes it aside with impressive _sangfroid_. "Teach me."

"Because, you see," continues Bakura, as though there had been no interruption, "such a skill requires months – perhaps _years _– of training. It is an ability granted only to the most adept. Some of the more ignorant may call it petty sleight of hand; rest assured it is more than that. In learning tricks such as these – " again, he repeats the mid-air shuffling "- you unlock the secret to numerous forms of deception, all dependent upon meticulous craft and virtually superhuman control. Truly, it is an art – "

Here, he is interrupted by Marik. "All it takes is a special flick of the wrist, Ryou; you can pick it up in about an hour."

Bakura shoots him a withering look.

"What?" says Marik, mischievously. "You were distracting me from reading. I can barely handle your speeches when working, alert and interested, let alone relaxed, tired and apathetic."

'Withering' swiftly modulates to 'murderous'. Marik returns once more to his book, with a broad grin.

Ryou feels that things have drifted a little too far off topic. He decides to take up the responsibility of steering the conversation back on track; a reasonably less formidable task than steering the Diaboundcorrectly on course, at any rate. "Teach me," he implores, doggedly.

"All right, wretch," says Bakura – although how he manages to force the words through the fortress of his steadfastly gritted teeth, Ryou will never know. "I'll teach you."

The rest of the day is spent in almost somnambulistic content, as Ryou struggles dutifully with the cards, Bakura titters lazily from his imperious seat at the armchair, and Marik darts the occasional, well-aimed one-liner at the proceedings, before returning to his happy intellectual stupor. The ship ploughs along with cheerful, asymmetrical judders, and somewhere in the distant swathes of cloud lingers a recently plundered dirigible on its subdued, shamefaced plod to England, and dinner is served promptly at 6:00, containing all manner of delicacies which even Bakura does not refuse to eat – and Ryou realises exactly how quickly a strange, newly-established routine may become custom.

Amazing how quickly he has grown in fondness for this godless, lawless, _tactless _(albeit not entirely heartless) den of thieves. Circumstance drove him to this situation – but he remains where he is by his own choice. (Admittedly, they are airborne, thus escape is impossible – _nonetheless._)

And so, with no small amount of inevitability, much like the cuckoo clock that chimes throatily at every hour, the stacks of unsorted books that cling to the edges of the living room, or the central chaise-longue that appears to be Marik and Bakura's pride and joy – he becomes a permanent fixture.

They are adamant to shape him into the vision they seem to have in mind: chipping with precise motion and sturdy hand; a polish here; some smoothing there. Ryou tolerates it with good humour. They whittle along the edges of his character, his poise, his bearing, adding embellishments alongside. Scrupulously, they alter him; he feels like an ivory statue, half-finished.

And they never seem to grow bored of it. Marik, whom Ryou would grace with the attention of a small mollusc on a generous day, is now teaching him how to read.

And, oh, it is _complex. _

Ryou has come to the conclusion that the written word is heavily overrated. Nothing is worth pouring painstakingly over intricate, meaningless hieroglyphs until they betray some semblance of pattern – not given the backache this ineluctably entails. And the _Albion _language – frankly, it is illogical, ugly and misshapen – no matter what Marik spouts about the beauty of its cadences, or the flexibility of its prose.

Nonetheless, it becomes pitifully clear that Marik craves the intellectual company of one who, unlike Bakura, will actually engage in earnest debate, rather than infuriatingly adopt a perverse position calculated to irritate. Ryou recognises that he is being moulded into a political and philosophical sparring partner, and he does his best to cooperate. When he is perilously close to giving in, Marik will read him an extract from one of his favourite books, voice reverent and sonorous, and they will discuss it at length. Ryou will be reminded of the arcane intricacies trailing the corners of his mind that he longs to clasp, soften and smooth into perfect words – and, yes, he will remember why the effort is, after all, worthwhile.

Marik is a terribly impatient teacher. Bakura – when he chooses – has a slightly higher tolerance for Ryou's blunders (though his response will invariably be something biting and cold; a sting to be endured, and overlooked) but he will rarely be persuaded to conduct a lesson. Often, he will grow bored and break off halfway through a particularly complex explanation, sometimes even trailing away mid-sentence to go and pester Marik.

No matter, for Ryou – despite everything – is learning.

Odd, that.

(He wonders, at intervals, if they are taking the slow way round to Italy; it has been days, and ships do not move _that _slowly, particularly not KaibaCorp models – and perhaps they are merely keeping the Diabounddeliberately motionless until he learns the difference between 'insidious' and 'insinuate'. Difficult to distinguish between one blur of cloud and the next when peering inquisitively out the window, after all.)

He learns, at any rate, how to write his name. Marik splutters with rather inconsiderate laughter as he emblazons paper after paper with _Ryou Bakura, Ryou Bakura, Ryou Bakura... _proof positive of his existence, and no need to carve his name on the Diabound'shull after all.

When he writes Kemetic, Ryou gazes intently at every stroke, his vision narrowing to encompass the slightest movement of his pen. Sometimes, he will cut corners, tracing the edge of one glyph before he finishes another, or moving from the bottom-most stroke to the top instead of the standard top to bottom. Despite the fact that neither action renders the result any more illegible than it might be otherwise, Marik slaps the pen from his hand, telling him exasperatedly to begin all over again. What is the good in writing, Marik asks, if it is done in the wrong order? The words would look fine, but it would still be _wrong_, in the same way that copying out the same glyph for fifteen pages, only to find that a single incorrectly placed dash has made it unreadable, is wrong.

Albian is different. The alphabet of the English language is wholly difficult to memorise, and not nearly as intuitive as the pictograms present in Kemetic. Each squiggle has to be a different size in order to be legible, and must sit at a different level on a line of writing. Getting a letter wrong is even less permissible than misremembering a glyph, because, as opposed to creating garbled nonsense, errors can change the meaning of phrases and passages entirely.

Nonetheless, Ryou is undoubtedly making much progress. It is not consistently evident: meanings can seem to fall out of his mind completely, and, lost on the floor of the Diabound, do not help him to stumble through the texts that Marik gives him to read (each denser and more incomprehensible than the next). However, on occasion, he will find himself staring fixatedly at a glyph, mesmerised by the knowledge that, somehow, he has managed to internalise the meaning with no effort whatsoever, to the point that his recollection of its pronunciation is a surprise even to his teacher. It is when this happens that Ryou understands why he can persevere with his studies, and he is filled with an irrepressible swell of pride at his sheer ability to learn. Then, as if to nip his arrogance in the bud, Marik asks him a basic question in Albian, and Ryou stutters miserably through a mangled answer, rife with 'um's – it is then that he must stop celebrating and get back to work. His mixed success is worth it, though, if only for the flashes of insight when Ryou can read half a complex sentence, each identifiable phrase a pinpoint of light in a thunderstorm of merciless words, and a triumph of hard work. This usually causes him to spend the next hour babbling in badly pronounced, if enthusiastic Albian to Bakura, whose amusement gradually devolves into irritation. Ryou is then made to stop studying, and spends the rest of his day scrubbing the kitchen tiles, still buzzing with accomplishment.

**xXx**

Ishizu pats her head gently to ensure that her thick white veil obscures as much of her face as possible. Shrouded in pale, none-too-clean garments, she could easily pass for any Kemetic immigrant here on London's streets – amidst crowds that reduce the individual to one, unremarkable blur amongst many. To be sure, as a Kemetic native, she has attracted stares, and even mutterings of abuse from a few – yet this is balanced by some glances of intense sympathy that warm her attitude considerably. London, like any place, is a mixed bag – certainly not the sullen, homogenous mass that she and Mana had tacitly anticipated. Not at all. There is hope for these people.

That hope, she suspects, lies outside the gates of the palace and the fortresses of well-kept mansions. It simmers under cobblestones and permeates the air; a breeze blown in from across the Channel, perhaps. This is a city on the verge of ferment: the prospect of revolution both rots and burns in the hearts of those she steps past with such assiduous pace.

Easy to spot – that hum of ill-disguised secrecy and expectation; the loud bark of some daring street speaker; the mute exchange of gunpowder behind closed doors at pubs and cafes – and, oh, she does not envy Albion's rulers.

All it should take is a firm, compassionate leader to halt the spread of sedition, she reasons. But the vacuum of power is filled by an arch-royalist; a bloodthirsty imperialist – and Ishizu, being, above all, a political pragmatist, fears the worst.

She will not broach a word of this to Mana and Atem – but inwardly, she accepts it would be wise to anticipate reasoning with a newly instated republican government in time. England is on the brink of collapse. It would be prudent to plan ahead of its fall; to snatch some form of order out of the ashes. Above all, to be prepared. As far as the situation here on the streets is concerned, there is little she can do but observe.

For now, she has concerns of a more personal nature to which she must attend. Well – not so much personal as _familial. _

Surreptitiously, she shifts her leg, to ensure that the slim, cotton-wrapped package still rests at her hip, where she fastened it before leaving. (Mana, exhausted from the events of the opening ceremony, has taken to slumbering late into the morning; Atem, Ishizu assumes, left even earlier than her. No threat of discovery on either front, therefore.) The item is, to the extent of her knowledge, secure. Good.

The thing is – when the middle classes call for democracy (or for some form of democratic concession; heaven forbid they should enfranchise the masses), one grants a bagatelle: a consultative assembly, for instance. Which, England's ruling class did a while back, quelling tensions at the time – but now, more is needed. When the workers demand equality, one grants higher wages, or lower working hours, or affords some other dispensation. This has not been tried.

When the rallying cry amidst bourgeoisie and proletariat alike is "liberty, equality – or death!", one can be fairly certain that the end is nigh unless some rather drastic appeasement is practiced. No use clinging on, limpet-like, to the crown, when it means nothing without a willing populace.

Pragmatism. The only route worth following. She has advised Mahaado for long enough to know when to relinquish a strand of power. Not much, mind. But more than the King's Regent will be prepared to offer, Ishizu is willing to wager.

Well, Mahaado wants peace and, one way or other, he will be satisfied. Who knows. Perhaps a popular republican government will be more progressive with regards to foreign policy. On the other hand, they could be facing a populist assembly more nationalistic than its predecessor. This, on the whole, seems unlikely – but she cannot rule out the risk.

The streets are _murmuring. _They throb with a deep, rich vein of potential; they surge with a half-hidden aura of pure energy; anyone can feel it. The pavement ready to lift off the ground, the buildings liable to hover, like unwieldy aircraft in preparation for unscheduled flight.

Ah, but back to the concrete. Back to personal, familial. Back to the object wrapped in cloth, wrapped under her robe, wrapped in abhorrent history.

She approaches her destination: a musty old gaming house named, somewhat improbably, _Bandits. _Here, she will meet the man with whom she spoke earlier yesterday, in a shadowy sort of conference on a bench at Hyde Park. And, from there, he will take her to Revealing Light_._

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- No matter what universe he finds himself in, Yugi will **_**always **_**be ridiculously friendship-inspiring. Just the way the world works. **

**- OK, but seriously, who **_**hasn't **_**fallen for the 52-card-pick-up trick at least once? (Me? I fell for it **_**twice.) **_

**- Ishizu is what, in foreign policy terms, would be described as a **_**realist. **_**She's also got a streak of the One Nation Conservative to her. Change in order to conserve, and all that. At any rate, she's perfectly happy working with whoever happens to be in power, monarch or republican. **


	9. Chapter 9

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...**_

**Honda attempts to kill the King, but is quickly dissuaded by Yugi's... uh, all round Yugi-ness. Instead, somewhat improbably, Yugi decides to hire him as bodyguard. Meanwhile, the thieves rise before Ryou: Bakura hung over; Marik irritatingly _not, _and together, they breakfast. Ryou has something of a moral epiphany upon eating stolen kiwi fruit: i.e. he is fine with being utterly _im_moral. Bakura and Marik contentedly trade insults; all in all, business as usual. Meanwhile, Ryou is learning how to read and write in both Albian and Kemetic - and, most importantly, how to do card tricks and how _not _to fall for Bakura's own tricks. We then cut to Ishizu, who notes with calm resignation that England is showing signs of serious civil unrest. She, however, is preoccupied with personal business - or, rather, family matters: namely, tracking down Revealing Light, the egalitarian terrorist organisation. Which brings us to other friends in England...**

**xXx**

Atem darts across the Palace gardens, careful to shelter himself behind rhododendrons and rose bushes each time he hears the suggestion of a sound. Fortunately, he lived in Buckingham Palace long enough to adequately memorise every inch of its grounds, and he makes his progress quickly, halting only to stare with faint nostalgia at a small grove of Indian chestnuts, before resuming his stealthy tread. He remembers hiding in the lowest branches as a child, content in the knowledge that an hour wasted learning the mundanities of Latin and politics, might instead be taken up collecting a veritable ocean of conkers.

Remembering his initial plans, Atem makes haste, sprinting through a section of gravel path and diving towards the palace walls. At forty two acres of land, the garden is vast, but Atem navigates with ease borne of practice, and finds himself directly below a second floor window on the north of the building. Behind it, he remembers, is an informal room, first used for music, and then later for Yugi's lessons. A rich red carpet, soft, to his memory, offsetting the dark wood of the piano in the corner – an instrument of torture to the two of them, neither of whom had the slightest talent for spinning music out of the its uncompromising keys.

Atem has long since outgrown the study of Latin, and is currently sporting a far less visible role in politics – indeed, it has also been many years since he mangled arpeggios on the piano – but he is certain that Yugi will be here. Four in the afternoon, sharp, was always when afternoon tea ended, and lessons commenced.

Bracing himself, and thanking Sophia for every second of truancy she saw fit to allow him in his childhood, Atem hooks one shoe around a window ledge, and presses another firmly against a pillar. He is, he realises, attempting to support his weight on purchases he discovered when he was younger, shorter and more predisposed to tennis and riding in the afternoons. Nevertheless, he perseveres, grasping a decorative – ah, _architectural curiosity; _he is completely uncertain as to the terminology– in order to hoist himself further up the building. Privately, he wonders if wearing such new boots was a good idea, much as Mana admired them – for fifteen minutes, no less - when he first wore them.

Finally, with much effort, a thoroughly dignified amount of panting and a mental note to inform Yugi that, as soon as is possible, he must redesign the outside of Buckingham Palace to include ladders, Atem reaches the window. Then he cranes his neck in a futile attempt to see through the lace of the curtains.

Squinting, Atem finds a scene coalescing into view before him. At the centre of the room, a desk. Upon it rest papers, a plate of sandwiches (Atem snorts in disapproval – discipline in schooling is in decline) and the regent, Mai Kujaku. Atem finds his hands bunching into fists at her calculating smirk, and has to practice restraint in not throwing himself through the glass. The woman is probably putting all sorts of notions into his younger brother's head - not the least of which is, in all likelihood, total submission to her every word. It is not right, Atem knows, that the King should be manipulated like a puppet by deft, duplicitous fingers, but he can do nothing. Not yet.

Beyond her Highness, sits a girl. Atem recognises her vaguely from the welcoming ceremony for the Kemetic ambassadors, but she is otherwise unfamiliar. She sits loosely, frowning a little, as though she is mulling over the information she is being given, and making her own judgement. Occasionally, a smile flits across her features, and Atem glimpses something fragile and undiscovered, but beautiful – she is nothing like as prim as he remembers most aristocratic girls behaving, and there is no reservation when she enters into debate, which she is wont to do with increasing frequency. She also has a stack of books resting on her head, but Atem assumes that this is irrelevant. His attention has been captured by another.

Yugi sits, mouth slightly open, utterly fixated on whatever matter is being discussed. His hair flops gently over one eye, but such is his concentration that he has yet to notice. Atem's heart aches for him, knowing that he must learn to cope with ruling a country; an entire empire. Knowing that the people's problems will soon be those of his younger brother. But Yugi is kind and fair and – despite what others might say – strong. Beneath the innocence, and the naïve, boundless desire for knowledge that is the entire purpose of his studies, Yugi is unbending – indomitable as light and justice. He cannot be suppressed by a regent, nor toppled by rebellion, and he will, in time, rule all of Albion, as is his right.

Unfortunately, Atem's arms are not nearly so reliable, and he levers himself out of his vantage point and down towards solid ground before he has the opportunity to test the structure of both the patio and his face.

**xXx**

Lady Kujaku sits cross-legged on the edge of the table, petticoats rustling with jaunty cheer. Anzu – who is beginning to grow accustomed to the horrible weight of her clothes – is perched on a quilted chair, posture as perfect as she can muster. As a dancer, it ought to come naturally, but somehow heightened awareness of the way she holds herself has caused a subtle, yet almost unbearable ache up the length of her spine. Meanwhile, Yugi – the King had urged Anzu not minutes into their first meeting to call him something, _anything _other than Your Majesty, thus she took the lead from Jonouchi in calling him by his Sophian name, and it has stuck, even mentally – sits attentively before Lady Kujaku, eyes so wide he seems hopeful of absorbing her very words by osmosis.

"In two days," she says – voice perfectly in accordance with that of a schoolmistress save for the undertone of a playful lilt that she lacks either the capability or inclination to disguise - "we shall be meeting with the Kemetic Peace Consul – led, of course, by High Priestess Mana and Ambassador Ishtar. The goal is to lay the foundations of an international treaty." Every word is emphasised by a midair tap of the foot – each more exuberant than the last.

Yugi nods, sharp and focussed. "And do I have to be there?" he asks, seriously.

Lady Kujaku raises a slanted eyebrow. "I'm afraid so. It would look odd if you weren't. Very discourteous. So – tempting, but no." She makes a slight move as if to reach over and ruffle his hair, but seems to think better of the motion, settling instead for a fond: "Not to worry - this silver-tongued diplomat will do the talking."

They laugh together. Restlessly, Anzu tries to ease the tension out of her shoulders, and smiles along. There is something about the rapport between these two which seems to radiate an inclusive friendliness – despite the inherent exclusivity of their discussion.

"Let's talk about what we want to achieve," says Lady Kujaku, smoothly. "So: questions. Easy one, to begin with. Our primary aim?" She peers at her king, quizzically.

Yugi smiles, seemingly happy to be given such an obvious, answerable query. "Peace," he replies, simply.

"Ah – well, officially, perhaps," says Lady Kujaku, amused. Yugi looks a little crestfallen. "Which isn't to say that it's not good to keep up with the official line in public," she adds, quickly, noting his expression. "Just that it's best to keep our subtler motivations in mind."

Anzu darts him a sympathetic glance, but he is facing assiduously forwards.

"No," continues Lady Kujaku, blithely. "Our agenda is focussed primarily on territorial gains – namely, the disputed areas among the Germanic states, and in Africa. It will require careful negotiation – or, rather, _manipulation _with regards to the Egyptians." She pauses to allow space for comment.

"And that's all about finding areas of compromise... right?" ventures Yugi, more tentative now.

Lady Kujaku nods, fervently. "If there's no other option, sure." Yugi squints, uncertain. "The best strategy is leaving them with no alternative other than to agree. Verbal manoeuvres; the soft insinuation of coercion and... such."

Yugi winces. "I don't think I'd be any good at that," he observes, softly.

Anzu feels vaguely embarrassed by the admission. It seems horribly unfair that Yugi should be forced to discuss his own shortcomings in earshot of a new friend, however open he usually is. In an effort to distract herself, she turns her attention to watching the snatches of light from the diamond-paned window play about the desk. Gold is chased by pink is chased by an odd shimmer of shadow that disappears almost as quickly as she discerns it. She glances at the window itself, but all she is greeted with is an unusually clear sky and a cluster of swaying trees in the distance. Nothing amiss. A bird, she assumes.

She feels the books balanced on her head begin to teeter dangerously. Accordingly, she shifts it so it falls in line with her shoulders, to face the other two. The distribution of weight slides then – a soft breath of relief – settles into balance one more.

Not that she is prone to boasting, but – she is very, very good at this.

(Earlier, Lady Kujaku had crept behind and caught her by the shoulder, saying: "For an aspiring ballerina, you slump quite dreadfully as you walk."

"It's these _clothes._"

"I'm sure it is. Well – practice is the only answer." She scooped up a pile of antique-looking books from a nearby table and balanced them delicately atop Anzu's head. "Sit up straight," she demanded, cheerfully.

... Four hours ago.)

Lazily, she directs her attention back to the lesson, which has progressed on somewhat confused lines since her brief mental departure.

"Why do we want extra land anyway?" asks Yugi, earnestly.

Lady Kujaku does a miniature double-take, although, to her credit, she manages to keep it elegant. Anzu imagines that, had she the same number of books on her head as her student, one would have toppled, but the rest would have remained wholly steady and balanced.

"To strengthen the Empire," she answers, as though it is only natural.

"We're strong already."

Lady Kujaku tuts, softly. "All very well, dear, but there's a little issue called social cohesion to contend with."

Slowly – painstakingly – Anzu turns to face her mentor directly. Lady Kujaku graces her with a small, secret smile before returning to Yugi, and Anzu feels oddly privileged.

"In this colossal, complicated, crazy little world," continues Lady Kujaku, expansively, "there are few things of which we may be sure. The world operates in limbo, flux – chaos, to be blunt."

Anzu almost tilts her head to the side in confusion, but catches herself in time. She is beginning to feel like a much put-upon statue, scarcely able to blink. (And, great Sophia, the corset is tight. What's more, it _itches._) At any rate, she has never believed the world to be chaotic. No – on the contrary, it seems to work with astonishing regularity and balance. (The books wobble.)

"Human knowledge can never encompass the intricate workings of Sophia's universe," continues Lady Kujaku, scarcely faltering over the words – as though either wholeheartedly convinced of their verity, or simply skilled in their pronunciation through constant repetition and study. Either it is sincerity, or skill. "We've harnessed steam, that's for sure; we've grappled with science and wrestled philosophy. And yet we always return to the same, unanswerable questions, to which the only indisputable response is 'Sophia caused it'. Unsatisfying, yes – but _necessary, _because there are no other answers within our capability to provide. No human, imperfect as is our grasp on knowledge, can ever hope to comprehend it all." She smiles. "Not even our great Seto Kaiba, try as he might."

"Um... Mai?" says Yugi – presumably wondering where peace talks, Empire and Egypt feature in all of this.

"Scene thoroughly set?" she asks. He nods. "All right. So, on a fundamental, basic level, people depend upon Sophia, and that gives order. However, order that you cannot see is a very unsatisfying sort of, for want of a better term, social glue. People – or confused little ants; think of them as you will – need more than that to keep their lives... balanced." She darts a sly glance at Anzu. "They need a representative of Sophia on earth. That, dear – " here, she snaps her gaze back to Yugi "- would be you."

"Ah – right?" Yugi looks a little overwhelmed. His eyes, glazed and wide with wonder as they are, seem hardly deep enough to contain the hopes of a million subjects – or, indeed, a Goddess. Anzu feels a vague rush of pity for him. He looks so unreservedly lost.

Lady Kujaku presses on. "The state operates as any organic system would: one part affects the whole; one aspect controls another; all conforming to an intricate, finely tuned hierarchy. You are literally the _head _of the state, controlling its functions as the brain might control the body. This is order. This is structure. This binds people together." She pauses, eyes now cast slightly downwards with studious consideration to the diamonds of light on the shadowed floor. "But any body needs blood. Call it power; call it the people's devotion; they are both intrinsically linked. Empire is blood. The people need their victories – their feeling of moral and social supremacy – to abide by order. They need to love their King and country. With Empire comes pride. Otherwise... the order will decay, and the body will falter. Imagine losing a limb – or worse, imagine the organs failing to respond to the brain."

Yugi shivers. "You mean the people who rebel – right?"

"Exactly. Keep them proud, loving and devoted – you need not worry about that." A dismissive slice of the hand through the air.

"And the attack from Revealing Light?" asks Yugi – carefully, as though he never expected to proceed so far in this dangerous line of inquiry.

"Subversive forces from outside the structure," says Lady Kujaku, without missing a beat. She answers all protestations with the same sweeping intensity – always swift, and unremittingly articulate. Anzu could listen to her speak for eternity; each phrase follows the next with such natural weight, and measured ease. _And yet, the actual substance seems... "_It will never catch hold if you make no concessions – show no fear."

"... Right," says Yugi, who seems far from fearless.

Music of unrelenting argument or no, Anzu cannot help but intervene. "What if people don't just want Empire?" she asks, carefully. "There are a lot of people I know who simply want _food. _Surely the body of the state needs its health?" She despairs at the depressing bluntness of her response – but perhaps something short and pithy is exactly what is required, regardless.

Yugi looks at her with an odd expression - something approaching admiration. "That's true!" he says, triumphantly. _Click _goes the puzzle in his brain; he has located the keystone. The eyes brighten accordingly.

"If you chase victory all the time, eventually there'll be nothing left to win," Anzu points out, warming to her theme. "Instead, what if we tried to make people happy and healthy?"

Yugi leans forward. "We could _share _everything," he intones, gleefully; it resembles the whisper of a shameful, enchanting secret. Anzu receives it with delight.

"With some place for people to state what they want, like a more efficient parliament, and another organisation to make it happen..." she notes Yugi's uncertain face. "_Or_ a benevolent monarch," she amends, swiftly. "Instead of making the people look up to the King, they could be _living _like one," she adds, wistfully.

"People need stability," agrees Yugi. "And happiness is stability – right? Food in the oven."

"Clean, running water," adds Anzu.

"Medicine that comes free."

"A chance to realise a dream."

"Art, and music and – and teaching! Education, right?" He looks askance for confirmation.

"Right! And free trips to the ballet!"

They both collapse into heady, exhilarated giggles. Yugi looks like a child carried away by his own delightfully illicit folly – and Anzu suspects that she does not look much more composed.

"Revolution!" says Lady Kujaku, laughingly shielding her face with both her hands. "This, right here – a microcosm of things to come. I despair!" With a decisive movement, she jumps off the desk and walks over to Anzu. Swiftly, she delivers a well-aimed _tap _to the bottommost book. The entire tower collapses in an instant – and Anzu is left with an astonishingly light feeling in her head.

"_That's_ what would happen," says Lady Kujaku in the ensuing silence. "It's a lovely dream, I'll admit. But that's _all _it is. Without hierarchy, where would we be? If everyone lived like a head of state, there would be no head at all. Everything would fall apart." The glee has dissipated, giving way to a heavy, black hush.

Yugi looks exceedingly sheepish, but Anzu cannot muster any dread at the prospect. If anything, it seems – well – exciting. For one thing, she was beginning to tire of those infernal books, like heavy lumps of concrete weighing her head down. Softly, she massages her aching neck.

"Trust me, Your Highness," says Lady Kujaku, with a courtesy that does not look at all deferential, "people are happy with their place in the order of things – however low. The alternative is far worse."

Anzu shakes her head, blearily. Straightens. "So where does that put me?"

"You?" Lady Kujakua looks momentarily puzzled. She takes one of Anzu's hands in both of hers (Anzu can _see _the thought trail across her face: _arrange for a manicure, and soon_) and studies it, pensively. "I rescued you."

Anzu meets her gaze, lips parted, perplexed. "So I'm outside my allotted place?"

With sudden briskness, Lady Kujaku stands, giving Anzu's hand a small, brisk pat. "Yes, I suppose you are."

The lesson ends shortly after.

**xXx**

Pan outside the makeshift classroom, beyond the palace, and two figures are discernable; one plunging forward with a long, even stride; the other lagging a little ways behind, following with ginger footsteps.

A faint breeze skims the immaculately trimmed lawn, allowing the shorn grass to stir, and raising fine goose pimples on the back of Honda's neck. _Shit, _but they keep the Palace gardens neat. He feels as though he is intruding upon a spruce, solitary world of sculpted hedges and geometric flowerbeds; it seems as though a single footstep could disturb this scene. His own relentless tread, far heavier than he would have liked, must be calamitous – at least to the dignified ants that no doubt form their kingdom amidst the ordered tongues of grass.

And anyway, he does not deserve to be here in the slightest. So he walks hunched over, for want of any prominent shadows to shrink into; if he cannot hide, then he can at least diminish himself. Although, frankly, the job has been adequately done already – for the boy King has so successfully diminished his pride that it may as well have faded to an insignificant spark in the distance. A damp squib, perhaps. Worse – he and his nonexistent speck of pride have been thoroughly _welcomed _here. No-one has questioned. There have been no accusations – only heartfelt, though superficially decorous, hospitality.

"You think you might want to stand up straight?" The comment his companion slings in his direction is drawled, but somehow hostile nonetheless. "'Cause that doesn't look too comfortable."

Honda flinches. Everyone has been welcoming bar one person: Katsuya Jonouchi is not fooled in the slightest. Presumably the King told him the truth, or perhaps he has guessed; it does not take much to tell that this man, though rough-hewn, is bizarrely shrewd. For the short time Honda has been at the palace, Jonouchi has darted _looks _at him, laced with suspicion and resentment. No words, mind. Only looks. Then, to Honda's shock, there was communication.

"You want to spar? I need to practice my fencing. Let's go to the gardens." The request was casual, abrupt, and wholly unexpected. Furthermore, it was spoken with such a defiant form of confidence that Honda doubted he would make it out of the proposed fencing match with every limb intact.

"Erm." Not _much _communication, true – but an improvement, impending doom notwithstanding.

Jonouchi tossed him a baited foil, and then walked away without so much as a backwards glance to check Honda was following.

So now, here they are, stalking across the grounds until they reach a patch of flat space that Jonouchi deems adequate for fencing. Judging by all the perfectly acceptable flat ground they have already trodden past, this will take a considerable amount of time. Perhaps Jonouchi is drawing him as far away from the building as possible. Perhaps he really does mean to kill him. Or maim him, at least. Humiliate him, certainly.

Despite it all, Honda cannot decide whether he is intrigued or apprehensive – and if both, as the case seems to call for a little of each, in what ratio and quantity?

Pressing questions, none of which seem prone to easy answers.

Judging from the slowing of Jonouchi's footsteps, they have approached suitable ground.

Wordlessly, Jonouchi raises his foil; Honda, after a pause, follows suit. They move forwards, until the tips brush together, with a soft click of slender metal. Further silence. Motionless, they stand, each daring the other to begin. Given the obstinacy of both, they are likely to be there for a while; Honda feels vaguely ridiculous. Thankfully, it is not perpetual. The wind whistles through the cage of the surrounding trees in full force, as, simultaneously, they launch themselves into combat.

There is a brief, chaotic tangle of blades; painfully, Honda lunges sidelong in an attempt to dodge the swift attack. Jonouchi is _everywhere, _darting in Honda's direction seemingly before Honda has the chance to register his own movement. He moves exactly like the breeze – relentless, unpredictable, imperceptible. In an embarrassingly brief amount of time – a click – a clatter – Honda is cornered, and hit; a sound tap on the chest with the edge of the blade's button.

He staggers back, astounded.

Jonouchi smirks. "Can't say I'm impressed."

Honda scowls, too breathless to retort.

"You think you can protect a _King?" _Jonouchi snorts. "Faced with assassins, you probably couldn't even save your own miserable skin."

Spurred by an instant surge of anger, Honda charges forward again, aiming a furious blow that is easily deflected by a lazy flick of Jonouchi's weapon.

"Feeble," taunts Jonouchi. "Some bodyguard _you'd _make."

Honda attacks once more, but even he recognises that the action lacks finesse, fuelled as it is by clumsy rage. As such, it is no more successful than the last – and Jonouchi's expression is infuriating. Arrogant and challenging, he has scarcely moved a foot out of place since he last spoke. He resists Honda's increasingly futile attempts effortlessly – and worse, does not even have the grace to hide his satisfaction.

"What – the hell – " Honda hisses, through increasingly laboured breaths, "is this about?" Huh?"

Jonouchi looks at him with disdain. "We're here to practice fencing. Idiot," he says, briefly.

"This – is obviously – something more than that," says Honda, and the words, though wispy and insubstantial in timbre, are resolute.

Jonouchi gives this a moment's consideration. "You're right," he says, calmly. Then, with a motion so startling as to be unavoidable, he deals a crippling blow to Honda's chest, causing him to topple to the ground. Jonouchi then whips the sword down until its tip (unbated; how did Honda not _notice _him remove the button? Stupid, stupid, _stupid_) rests at the base of Honda's throat, pressed firmly enough to prevent escape.

"Wha – " Honda manages to breathe, but halts, for fear that further words – and the subsequent movement – will be enough to drive the sword's point into his adam's apple.

"I have some questions, _Honda, _and you're not getting up until they're answered," says Jonouchi, heatedly.

Honda blinks, attempting to convey assent. Probably he only succeeds in revealing terror.

It seems enough for Jonouchi, at any rate. "When did you join Revealing Light? Who ordered you to go after the King? Was it Dark Necrofear?"

Honda gapes, uncomprehending. Jonouchi withdraws the tip of the sword by perhaps one millimetre, enough to allow speech. "I – _what?"_

"You _heard _the question – "

"I was hired b-by Maximilien Pegasus!" splutters Honda. "I'm not a terrorist. I'm not..." There is a growing uncertainty to Jonouchi's expression. Watching him weaken, Honda is keen to press on: "He asked to be put into contact with the best in my... group. None of us thought it would be something this big – or even that it would involve killing. I never wanted to kill. I don't ever want to go back there, either. I was taken to Pegasus, and he told me my task was to – well. I couldn't do it. I could never! I... tried. I'm pathetic."

Jonouchi squints. "_Pegasus?"_

"I don't know why either."

The blade is discarded. Honda sits up, weakly massaging his throat.

"You ended up in the wrong place with the wrong sort of people," says Jonouchi, a little more gently, kneeling down beside him so that they are eye to eye. "I know how... what I mean to say is, I can understand how that might... I'm sorry."

Honda looks up, astonished. "You're _apologising? _To me?"

Jonouchi nods, penitent. "I'm sorry. That was an idiotic thing to do. I mean, I still don't trust you," he adds, hastily. "But you're not an egalitarian, or a revolutionary. Christ, you're just a kid."

Honda moves to object, but cannot seem to muster the strength to argue.

**xXx**

The day before their planned arrival in Italy, Marik decides it is more than time that Ryou be given a political education. Foolish to let him fall into the ideological clutches of some imperialist on the streets – or, worse, Bakura. He introduces the topic subtly, gradually, with a soft, beguiling manner that draws the boy inexorably into discussion:

"So, Ryou – I don't suppose you have any politics?"

(The very _finest _art of subtlety would be lost on him; one must be at least _vaguely _transparent.)

Ryou makes a show of searching his pockets. "Not on me, no,. Maybe we should pick some up at port, if we're running low?"

Marik, in appreciation of Ryou's newfound sly sense of humour (which seems to have developed in rough correspondence to the disappearance of his habitual traces of deference) cuffs him firmly on the head. "So that's a no?"

Ryou shakes his head, still mischievous. "Bakura warned me about this. I'm supposed to punch you in the gut if you mention the words 'revolution', 'exploitation' or 'proletariat', and run for assistance. He says he'll come and lock you in your room till your 'fit of political fervour' subsides." A pause. "Uh. What does 'fervour' mean?"

Marik, who has long since ceased to be sensitive, laughs unabashedly as he explains. Tch. Bakura's sense of humour is nowhere near as innocent as the one Ryou appears to be cultivating. Well, anyway. Down to business. "If you're completely politically unaware – even better. You can be a living embodiment of Locke's blank slate." _And by the time I'm done, _he thinks, _you'll appreciate that allusion. And possibly even laugh retrospectively. _

Ryou sighs, not loudly, but with a little hiss of resignation. He lays down his pen so it drips neatly into the inkwell, and blots the last sentence on the page ('all morals are thoroughly subjective', in shaky Kemetic; never let it be said that Marik is not above dabbling in subliminal suggestion – again, subtlety would be wasted). This done, he turns to face his teacher properly; Marik sits close beside him at the mahogany desk, drumming at the edge with two bitten fingernails. "I'll listen to what you have to say, and judge for myself," says Ryou, somewhat proudly.

"I could ask no better," says Marik, amusement dancing behind half-veiled eyes. "All right, demon child. Has it ever occurred to you that something might be a little skewed about the way the world operates?"

Ryou blinks, disorientated. "Um..."

"Good grief, Ryou, you were found literally starving to death in some crumbling backstreet of Alexandria; do you really have to think quite so hard to come up with an example of injustice?"

Ryou processes this, visibly; anyone would imagine the information is novel. "Well, yes, but that's just the way the world works, right? If you're unlucky..."

Marik grinds his teeth somewhat. In fact, they begin to ache immediately after. He makes a serious mental note to pursue a less destructive form of catharsis. "That's not our natural state; that's the way the world is tailored to function for the satisfaction of various vested interests. To the detriment of everyone else."

"Oh. If you say so."

Ugh. There is is. That insouciant _apathy, _rearing its lethargic head. Marik can tolerate anything but _apathy_. "Pay attention, would you? Use your brain. It's not what I say, but what you _think _about it that matters."

Ryou gazes up at him, lips slightly parted; expression half quizzical, half amused. "I won't know what to think about what you have to say unless you say it," he points out, mildly, with some degree of circularity.

"... Fair point. All right. History is dialectic, right? That is to say, societal progression is brought about by two classes of people – a ruling class and a subordinate class – engaged in a perpetual power struggle. Do you follow?"

At this point, Ryou jumps, as a voice cuts in from behind him. "Of course he doesn't follow, brat. You're attempting to condense an entire volume of egalitarian theory into one short lecture. The wretch is sharp, but he's not superhuman."

Marik smirks, just a little, at how Ryou's face seems to brighten in surprise at the backhanded compliment. That said, he is justified; Bakura's approval is rarely proffered uncoloured with a little derision, if ventured at all. Perverse creature never could deliver praise that sounded halfway heartfelt.

"Anyway," continues Bakura, sliding onto the edge of the desk (blatantly ignoring both Marik's exasperated glare and the teetering inkwell), "I thought we issued a political injunction a while back. As in, I forbade you from indoctrinating our pet."

Ryou gives a small squeak of protest at the unfortunate epithet.

"What can I say?" drawls Marik, heavily, feeling his teeth begin to ache again. "I'm a rebel."

Bakura swivels round to Ryou. "And you, wretch! I distinctly remember telling you to stab him in the eye with the sharp end of a quill if he brought up anything like this. Frankly, I'm disappointed." He raises an impertinent eyebrow.

Ryou observes him with interest. "Was that how _you_ got your scar?" he inquires, haplessly. "Did you annoy Marik?"

Oh, _Gods... _(Marik, unlike some, is not in the habit of invoking a deity with every event life hurls his way, but he reserves the right to chastise them in their insubstantial irrelevancy every time something goes drastically wrong.)

Bakura regales them with one of those damnably irritating, raspy guffaws that just teeter on the edge of demented. Hair flying waywardly as he tilts his head back, the better to luxuriate in disquieting mirth, and all that. Once he settles down again, he says: "I make a habit of annoying Marik. But the scar is a story for another day."

_Careful, partner, _thinks Marik, sardonically. _Tone's a tad too dark, wouldn't you say? _

Clearly Ryou sees nothing remiss about the recovery; he neglects to pursue the subject, but does not seem particularly subdued or particularly suspicious. Just as well, that.

"As I was saying," says Marik, after a beat, "the dialectic –"

"Urgh, do it properly at least," interrupts Bakura. "Don't inundate him with jargon."

"_Dialectic," _says Marik, pointedly. Then, shortly after, relents. "All right, Ryou. The basis of egalitarianism is – well, unsurprisingly, equality. We all need certain material things, right? In order to live. Food, water, books – et cetera. Now, throughout history, whoever controls the method of producing these things – the means of production – has all the power; together, they possess what is necessary for human survival, and regulate its distribution. Factory owners. Business leaders."

"Like..." Ryou dredges a half-remembered name from his dreary accumulation of world affairs, gleaned from scatterings of overheard conversation in Alexandria. "Seto Kaiba?"

"_Very _much like Seto Kaiba," says Marik, grimly. "You could call him the quintessential capitalist. Call him the ruler of the world, if you like: he controls the skies; controls the method of importation."

Ryou nods. "They're the people with the power, then? Not the Pharaoh?"

Marik laughs. "_A palpable hit! _Kings and Pharaohs are irrelevant; real influence lies with those in charge of industry. We live in a society where inequality is not only rampant – but an inevitable consequence of its structure. Social disparities are institutionalised; for every winner, there are a thousand losers."

"But surely no-one wants that!"

"The Kaibas of this world most certainly do. Understand that they don't care for anyone beneath them, overmuch. They care about personal advancement – perhaps the immediate wellbeing of their compatriots and peers. Nothing more. The zealous gaze of Seto Kaiba can span no further than the nearest source of profit. The capitalists – the success stories, at any rate... they would sacrifice the happiness of many for the cult of one; their own, personal empire."

"Which is pretty damn accurate, as far as any description goes," Bakura chips in. "People are selfish bastards; rich people even more so. For the most part, life is indifferent, tiring, or downright painful. Where the brat and I differ is that _he _thinks he can change it. Singlehandedly, one assumes."

"I've no illusions of bringing down world capitalism on my own," Marik bites back, heatedly. "Only you would be _that _hubristic. But I do think the ruling class can be toppled. For that matter, it _will _be toppled. The only viable option is revolution. No use attempting to subvert the system from within; it'll control you, and shape you to fit its framework. Far better to step outside it altogether – and smash the edifice from the outside."

Ryou's gaze darts confusedly from one to the other. "What would you build?" he asks, haphazardly. "The – uh - the toppling, I mean. Things get destroyed. What would come out of it all?"

"Utopia," says Marik, as Bakura says, simultaneously: "resounding defeat."

"Um?"

"It all boils down to this," says Marik, seizing the initiative once more. "Why should anyone be judged, and priced accordingly? Why should we rank ourselves according to arbitrary, subjective criteria? The capitalists would say that people ought to be rewarded according to 'merit'. What constitutes merit? Any attempt to define it only reflects the bias of those foolish enough to try. Why should you, or I, be judged and sentenced according to rules made up nigh-on randomly by someone else? If we don't measure up, why should we forfeit the right to live a meaningful life? Would it really be so terrible to see one's neighbour getting the same deal as everyone else, or would you vindictively claim that you deserve more, or that, in effect, they deserve less? _Who are we to judge? _As far as I'm concerned, we only have the one life, and an unreasonably short one at that; can't we just settle down, dispense with the self-righteous bigotry, and let everyone enjoy it to the best of their capabilities?" He is growing steadily impassioned; yet now, he relaxes in his, ah, fervour – _best not to get entirely carried away – _and returns to the comparatively practical. "This would, of course, entail material equality of outcome for all. Give everyone the same favourable situation, and watch them flourish – for the sake of flourishing itself, not for some vainglorious monetary incentive!"

"This is fantasy," chimes in Bakura, airily, lolling on the desk.

"Why?" snaps Marik. "Because it conflicts with the interests of tyrants?"

"Chiefly, yes. Overwhelming lack of support is another factor."

"Oh, there's support, all right," Marik growls. "The more the ruling class pushes, the more the proletariat simmers with growing defiance."

"Mixed metaphor," Bakura points out, conversationally. "You should really avoid those."

"Oh, just look at France, for the Gods' sake!" Marik shouts, provoked to exasperation. Somehow, political discussions _always _end this way: with Bakura being calmly infuriating; Marik ranting; and France.

"France – a capitalist nation," notes Bakura.

"France – living out the legacy of revolution!" Some people simply fail to comprehend analogies which operate beyond the superficial. "They taught us all how to rebel effectively, regardless of the outcome. Next, they shall teach us how to build." For Marik, the French spirit of defiance is the world's salvation_. _

"I thought hope lay in South America?" queries Bakura, amused.

"There too. Anywhere independent of Albion or Kemet. _They, _allthe colonies, have to throw off the shackles of Empire yet – assert their own identity before altering it. Like Prussia might."

Ryou has been listening, with expression either rapt or glazed; his looks are so softly luminescent, it is rather difficult to tell. He turns to Bakura. "So – what will you do when the revolution swings around?" he smiles. As though the question is quaintly hypothetical. _So much for an ally, then_.

"Stay up here, same as ever," Bakura replies, brusquely. (Marik notes that he is sitting on the paper on which Ryou was writing; it is now thoroughly crumpled.) "All governments are rotten and corrupt; an egalitarian one would be no different."

"I'd go fight on the rebels' side," says Marik, frowning, as though there could be any doubt of his intentions.

"I'd leave you to it," replies Bakura, unfazed.

"No you wouldn't," scoffs Marik. "You're a bit of an anarchist, really. Any excuse to throw a stone or two at the privileged."

"Don't conflate me with you," warns Bakura, offhandedly wadding up a piece of paper and tossing it jauntily at Marik's forehead. "_I _don't care." _What makes you think I'd break a voluntary exile? _his look seems to demand. Probably he is just perturbed at being labelled as anything vaguely political; even 'anarchist' is far too structured, or specific, for him – or some such nonsense. As if a label carries any meaning. Yet Bakura is fiercely individualistic.

He has his reasons, though.

Amazing that he has deigned to share his atomistic life with as many as two. As many as _one, _even – but two is truly surprising. Even more surprising is the fact that it seems to work.

(At least, it works when Bakura refrains from throwing blunt missiles. Marik is half tempted to pelt something harmless back, but he notices the precarious position of the quill balanced teetering on the edge of the filigree inkwell, dripping blue ink slowly but inexorably onto Bakura's clothing. Let his bright Kemetic tunic be subtle revenge, then. A quick glance at Ryou – who stifles a giggle quite admirably – proves him to be equally aware of the situation.)

"Society is built along flawed foundations, yes, but they're _entrenched," _Bakura continues, blithely. "I washed my hands of it all years ago."

"Mixed metaphor," mutters Marik. "Not that I'm keeping track."

Cue elaborately rolled eyes from his companion. "Pedant."

"Hypocrite."

A pause.

"But – the two of you live well," ventures Ryou, timidly. He has been observing the interplay with diligence. "Doesn't that make you – ahm – on the wrong side?"

Marik feels that familiar surge of twisted discomfort and righteous indignation course through him, washing over his next words. "We only steal from the wealthy! Think of it as recompense."

"Think of us as benevolent parasites," says Bakura, grinning widely.

(_It's delightfully easy to stir up your guilt, brat, _he once said to Marik. At least Marik possesses the capability. Truly, he has no problem with robbing the rich; it is reaping the benefits which elicits the twinge of unease. Needless to say, his partner is burdened by no such compunctions. Objectively speaking, Bakura is one of the least burdened people in existence.)

"You're living a story book," murmurs Ryou. "That's what I think." He focuses on some haze of dust-drenched air in the distance, his expression softening dreamily further. "Isn't it incredible to be able to exist effortlessly?"

"We don't have to contend with the weight of the world," says Bakura, leaning close enough to Ryou to tap him fondly on the nose. "Three's enough for anything."

Marik, for his part, watches the two exchange teasing smiles with a shade of uncertainty. "Well – I still feel the tug of old ties," he admits, quietly. "People need connection with the world, or they just wither."

"Yes," says Bakura, looking up, arm now slung lightly about Ryou's slender shoulders. "But it's a longing satisfied by snapshots in newspapers. To build upon the wretch's oddly apt simile –"

"Metaphor," corrects Marik, automatically.

" – the outside world may as well be a particularly enthralling story book. Or one of your novels, perhaps."

"It _exists," _says Marik, insistently. "That doesn't mean we have to participate – but people are suffering out there!" He turns to Ryou, in mute appeal. Ryou lowers his eyes, unhelpfully.

Tracing the direction of Marik's gaze, Bakura chuckles. "We delivered _him_ from the world. Can't save everyone."

"Can too," snaps Marik, with a little petulance. Absentmindedly, he toys with a strand of Ryou's hair.

"We should braid it sometime," says Bakura, nodding towards the unthinking motion. "'S'long enough."

"Too fluffy," says Marik, vaguely, teasing the hair through his fingers. "Also – it'd look absurd," he adds, matter-of-factly.

Ryou gives Marik a fleeting smile, and Bakura delivers one of his sly crocodile smirks, and the strange mood passes like a trace of perfume briefly detected before dissipating into the surrounding air.

**xXx**

**A/N: Whew! Whole lot of politics in this chapter. Oh, and swashbuckling. But yeah. **

**- ... These notes are getting increasingly superfluous.**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...**_

**Atem sneaks his way into the Palace gardens, shimmies up the side of the wall like the stealthy, athletic climber he is, and observes Yugi receiving a lesson in diplomacy from the woman he abhors as the very devil, Mai Kujaku. Oh, and there's Anzu, too, with books balanced on her head. Mai attempts to teach Yugi how to be Machiavellian in his tactics – all in preparation for the first round of treaty discussions with the Kemetic consul. Yugi and Anzu get rather carried away in envisioning a fairer, more equal world – and are promptly brought quite remorselessly back down to earth. Meanwhile, Jonouchi suggests a fencing match to Honda, and Honda ends up with a sword to his throat and a demand to tell Jou if he is working for Revealing Light. Honda protests that he was working for Pegasus, but would never hurt Yugi now – and Jonouchi believes him. Across the skies, Marik decides to give Ryou a lesson in politics before someone else (like Bakura) pollutes his mind. He waxes lyrical on the nature of a socialist utopia, detailing examples of capitalist exploitation, and Ryou listens with interest. Bakura interjects with judicious amounts of snark. Ryou remarks on how the thieves seem to live story book lives. Bakura rather likes the description; Marik is ambivalent. **

**Which leads us nicely into the next scene...**

**xXx**

Ryou watches iridescent light glisten off each raindrop, chasing them down the window with his fingertip. After many hours in the ship spent staring out of this window, he has never ceased to wonder at how beautiful they are, against all odds - formed in an endless expanse of sky, the droplets are perfectly rounded. Ryou thinks that maybe the Diabound is imbued with a sort of magic, that mere residue from a monotonous rainstorm can seem like diamonds when it gathers on the ship's windowpanes.

Or perhaps he is liable to over-think certain things.

Ryou's legs are curled beneath him on his bed, brilliantly numb from lack of motion. Bakura and Marik must be somewhere amongst the exotic furniture and lavish ornaments of the other rooms, and he smiles involuntarily at the thought. Now that he has resigned himself to living in this cozy den of thieves, he cannot help but find himself becoming increasingly fond of his saviours – though their ability to change from endearingly obtuse to distant and derisive still occasionally has the power to make his head spin.

Nonetheless, Ryou is finding it difficult to think of a course of events that might feasibly induce him to leave. And he is not sure if the electric shiver that runs down his spine at the thought is the product of apprehension, or some distant, elusive emotion that he cannot seem to identify or explain.

"Delighting in the very action of existence," drawls a wry voice, "how poetic. Marik would be proud of you, wretch."

Ryou starts. Bakura is leaning idly against the doorframe. It is still morning, and he is robed in an expansive red dressing gown, surprisingly old and worn. The thin cloth gathers at his ankles, and Ryou wonders absent-mindedly at how soft it looks.

"You know, I've heard that turning inexplicably mute is the first sign of madness." Ryou can still never quite tell when Bakura is joking and when he is not, but is willing to dismiss this as unimportant, if only for the duration of this slightly one-sided conversation.

"I haven't had anyone to talk to in a very long time," he responds, fingers still splayed awkwardly against the glass. "Not until recently."

"I suppose." That seems to content Bakura, and he lapses into silence, seemingly satisfied to gaze intently at a spot an inch above Ryou's forehead.

Ryou returns to his raindrops, deciding that, if the conversation has been abandoned, it is not impolite to do so. But they seem to pool all too quickly at the bottom of the glass, and an occasional gust of wind causes ripples that blow some of them away from the window entirely.

A thought occurs to him, and Ryou assumes that it is safe to voice it. At the very least, Bakura does not appear to be in an overly antagonistic mood; nor is he behaving in that peculiar way that causes words to tangle and Ryou's thoughts to tie themselves in knots as each is, in turn, contradicted. "Am I the first person who you…" he gestures vaguely towards himself, attempting to summarise every one of myriad subtle changes "…helped?"

Bakura's lips twitch into half a smile. Ryou has taken a long time to gather the courage necessary to ask the question, and evidently, it was entirely predictable. "Do you think that we usually sweep beggars from the streets out of the goodness of our hearts?" He stretches out his arms, fingers interlocked. "And you meant to say 'whom' – not 'who'. I could care less, but Marik will throw a fit if he catches you mangling your pronouns," he adds, as a prompt afterthought.

"Pro…nouns?"

"…A subject that we will breach later." He snickers. "Suffice it to say, you are one of only two piteous wretches to grace the Diabound for any significant length of time."

Ryou turns to stare, scrutinising Bakura's face for a trace of telltale emotion. None is forthcoming. "Two?"

Bakura grins, showing teeth. "It's impolite to interrogate your host."

"Sorry." Ryou mumbles the apology reflexively, and regrets it almost immediately as the grin widens.

"Your apology is accepted. Care to join me in the living room? You are in desperate need of a basic lesson in the rules of whist. Can't have you playing solitaire forever."

"Whist?"

"And to think," Bakura opines to the heavens, and to the room at large, "I said that he was mute. Now he's a parrot."

"Bakura." The use of the thief's name seems to catch him off guard, because he immediately abandons his focus on the ceiling in favour of narrowing his eyes at Ryou. "I don't understand why you and Marik took me in, if you weren't being kind."

"Kind?" Bakura seems to ponder the word, rolling it around his mouth as though transfixed by its simplicity. "Sheer, morbid curiosity is a more accurate description. Think of it as good fortune falling from sky, and sweeping you up in her arms."

Ryou tries very hard not to think of that, because the connotations are disturbing. "But if that's true, then I don't really deserve to be here, do I?"

And now that the words are out of his mouth, after so many days and so much magic, he wishes that they were not. Because Ryou has broken the spell, and he knows that – if Marik and Bakura have a scrap of common sense between them – he should have been returned to the streets of Alexandria within his first week aboard the Diabound. Away from the rich food and the outlandish clothing and the water so abundant that it streams down his window like teardrops.

Dragging his gaze from the floor, he meets Bakura's eyes. Astonishingly, the only thing he can see is barely suppressed laughter.

"Yes," deadpans Bakura, voice shaking slightly, "I see the light. I am going to waste fuel, money and considerable effort to drop you back in Egypt. I, the greatest thief in all Kemet, am obviously mistaken about a single wretch. Because he doesn't _deserve_ it, I'll abandon him."

Ryou opens his mouth. Then he closes it again. The air is awfully hard to breath, and his face burns. Odd. He had thought that he had grown past that level of incoherence.

Deeming the subject sufficiently obliterated, Bakura sweeps imperiously out of the room. Ryou hears a distant cry of "Whist, Marik!" from two rooms over, and for a moment, he considers not moving. After all, he might freeze in place, and then he could not leave even should he want to.

Marik's voice reverberates down the corridor. "Ungrateful demon child! You can at the very least grace us with your presence for cards!"

Ryou reflects that he may never hear the end of this. Yet he cannot bring himself to care.

**xXx**

Mana, swathed in sheets, head burrowed into her pillow, hears a dull knock at her bedroom door.

"Mana?" Ishizu's voice – patient, yet insistent, drifting in from outside the room. "You overslept. We have to go, Mana. The peace talks begin today; we have to be at the Palace soon." A pause, during which no response is elicited. Further knocks, and gentle summons. "The carriage is waiting, Mana!"

Mana mumbles something incomprehensible, even to her.

Ishizu seems to lose a little patience. "_Mana!" _Sharp yell; pounding at the door.

With a start, Mana crashes to her feet, half tangled in the bedding, uttering curses that, whilst scarcely shocking by ordinary standards, seem more than a little incongruous when uttered in refined squeaks by a High Priestess. Laughter echoes from behind the door. Bubbling, it harmonises with a deeper voice; clearly Atem has returned from his twilit wanderings.

Shamefaced, Mana proceeds to make her toilette with requisite haste, muttering her apologies to the Kemetic deities for her cursing as she does so. "Sorry Ra..." Several swoops of kohl. "Sorry Bast..." Speedy reassembling of her wayward hair. "Sorry Set..." A guilty pause, as she ties the sash around her tunic. "Sorry, Osiris' arsehole."

And she is ready – bound up like a china doll, and prepared to stand strong, or be shattered by the glint in Mai Kujaku's eyes. She is now poised to exercise every skill she has gleaned in gentle diplomacy, wound together with Ishizu's resolved pragmatism in the hope of countering Albian aggression. _Fight fire with firmness. _Or Mahaado will be ruined. She is certain that defeat will break him; his entire reign has tended on course towards just one point, a blurred speck of land – _peace – _and the treaty must succeed, else he will lose all purpose. She has seen him fatigued, overworked – rent till half-ragged by his struggles. To be absent from the proceedings must be slowly killing him, but to attempt the journey would be futile. Too risky. Unprecedented. Impossible to leave the centre of Kemet when so much these days seems spiralling out of control. A whirlwind Empire, tumbling erratically nearer to the close of the century – and sometimes, when Mana watches the colossal airships skirt past London's vast edifices with breathtaking speed, or witnesses the power of steam twist its way into some new, clockwork-forged mechanism with the potential to turn everything on its head – she wonders _in this new world, where is the place for politicians? For heads of ancient families, or leaders steeped in gold and tradition? For the Gods? _The globe is fast becoming the empire of industry – _and where is the place for that defiant little country that tore its way out of the steel grip of Albion, and became itself? _Mimicking its predecessor; that's where.

And in all this play of conquest and victory, they have hitherto failed to notice when the real victors stand at the sidelines, unobtrusively conquering the realms of technology.

Oh, she is all for progress, but it seems so...

... _Gods_, she misses Mahaado.

"I'm ready," she says, to Ishizu and Atem's expectant faces, as she opens the door, half in a dream. "Let's go," she says, to Ishizu.

"Right."

They _both _move to go. Suspicion greets Mana. "Atem, what do you think you're doing?" she asks, in a tone that indicates no compromise. (Funny, she would never have thought herself capable of sounding like that. She must remember to use that on the King's Regent.)

"Coming with you," says Atem, a little sulkily.

She reaches over to tousle his hair. "No you're not," she says, firmly. "You'll be recognised."

He ducks away, and pulls his hood over his head, obscuring his features in inky folds of material. "No I won't," he insists.

"Let him come with us, Mana," says Ishizu – though her advocacy seems tentative at best. "He has not yet seen his brother properly. Allow him a glimpse. He can sit at the edge of the table. Unobtrusively." She fixes Atem with a stern look. "_Silently." _

"I promise I'll keep quiet," smiles Atem, meek as anything.

Mana throws her hands in the air. "All right – all right! Now let's go; we have to hurry or we'll be late." She nods, earnestly. Atem and Ishizu exchange amused glances.

They depart in considerable haste; soon, in a claustrophobic, curtained carriage, they are hurtling through narrow streets, on a tour of London's numerous potholes and unexpected ditches. Mana glances nervously at the uncompromising face of her pocket watch, wishing only for more time in which to dread this meeting.

**xXx**

Jonouchi peers through the keyhole, pressed close against Anzu and Honda who are, in turn, pressed against the door – all straining to catch a fragment of the conversation bubbling within.

"They're sitting at a long conference table," he reports, quietly. "The Kemetic guests are all at the one side, and the Albians at the other. I can only see the back of Yugi's hair. Lady Mai is facing down Ambassador Ishtar. Can't see Milady's face, but I bet it's scary, 'cause the Ambassador's looking sort of frustrated. The High Priestess just looks a little upset." He pauses, gaze lingering. "She's pretty," he adds, offhandedly.

"Shh!" hisses Anzu. "We've _seen _her already – we know she's pretty! Now stop talking; I can't hear."

"_You_ stop talking," retorts Jonouchi, with astounding eloquence.

"Both of you stop it," mutters Honda – to the annoyance of all.

Impatiently, they hush one another, alternately vying for the keyhole and scrabbling at the cracks where the door meets the frame. A few minutes pass, during which the few words floating past the barrier (_"border arrangements"... "multi-lateral disarmament"... "unrealistic"...) _are bereft of context, virtually inaudible and all but meaningless. Thwarted, the three move away, sprawling defeated to the carpet.

Jonouchi sighs, gustily. "Damn it. I hope Yugi's all right. They'll eat him alive in there," he says vehemently.

"Yugi's doing fine – I know it," says Anzu, with assurance. She reaches over and squeezes his hand in sympathy.

Jonouchi grins, gratefully. Since that first day when she stepped so awkwardly into their lives, with painted face and sculpted hair, he has been steadfastly fond of this girl. She has – how to describe it, exactly? – spirit. Spirit, and nous. Lady Mai, in her infinite wisdom, chose well when she brought prim Miss Mazaki to the palace. Like pastel pink tempered _steel, _is Anzu. The three of them, he, Anzu and Yugi, have drawn so close together - like the way Anzu occasionally embroiders, pulling the thread taut until it clings tight to the material - that Jonouchi can scarcely remember what it felt like to be apart.

"I don't know," says Honda, slumped against the wall, a little ways further from the other two. "He's not made for this. He's too good for those people. All thinking they're so big and important. He's not selfish enough for all that."

Jonouchi does his best to sneer condescendingly at that remark – yet, try as he might (and trust him; he makes the effort) he cannot seem to hate Honda as much as he would wish for. No, he is perilously close to _liking _him. Honda is far too reminiscent of what might have been – what _was _–for any condemnation to feel justified. He cannot say he is pleased about this tolerance – only that there is no two ways about it; Honda may as well be a younger, unluckier Jonouchi. To say nothing of his dogged adoration of Yugi, with which it is far too easy to sympathise.

Damn Yugi and his penchant for saving people, anyway.

**xXx**

Ishizu casts an eye down the long line of scribes at the table, all dutifully scrawling down each detail of the proceedings – glossing each phrase; highlighting suggestions. Faithful servants of the Kemetic throne. She despises the bustle – despises even more the decorous line of Albian secretaries, scratching away with their pedantic quills.

_We have assembled armies of scribblers, _she thinks, wryly. _Let the war of ink and words begin. _

But of course, it has already begun – indeed, the minute hand of the topmost grandfather clock has drifted its languid way full circle, thrice, and is now attempting a fourth lap – and, so far, a few formalities have been dispensed with; a few bagatelles tossed in either direction... and nothing gained on either side of the stalemate. Too early to hurl oneself headlong into the central issues. Too late to smooth things over with further irrelevancies.

Best to settle a few grievances, then.

"May I direct us towards the crux of the point at hand?" she does not ask so much as announce, slicing through the relative silence and stilling the whispered rustle of paper.

The Regent darts a sardonic glance through slanted eyes. "If you believe you have located it, by all means go ahead," she says, smoothly. There follows a wave of quiet chuckles from the Albian side of the table.

Ishizu ignores the obvious raillery and presses on. "If we are to pursue a cordial relationship between empires – in fact, one might go as far as to say amicable, mightn't one? Well. _If _we are to do so... mustn't we attempt to foster a kind of equality?" Ah, she can manipulate words as well as any of them – and, naturally, they are surprised by the fact. She is well versed in the clipped, fussy intricacies of Albian grammar. Like any diplomat worth hiring, this language hides nothing from her; it is like a shrug, or a close-fitting slip – to be worn or discarded at will. A second skin, with all the versatility of a first.

Lady Kujaku does not quite blink – her eyes close for just a fraction too long for that – but inclines her head, elegantly. It is much more a challenge than it is acquiescence. "Expound, please?"

Ishizu nods. "I feel it to be a matter of grave concern," she says, the words dancing about the air like feathered threats. "We are attempting to understand one another – as nations and as empires – and yet the status of a Kemetic citizen in Albian territory is akin to that of a servant."

Lady Kujaku tilts her head, slightly, allowing two stray curls – teased out of her immaculate chignon – to swing gleaming to the right like twin pendulums.

"An Albian immigrant in Kemet is treated with all the respect that would befit a guest," continues Ishizu, unfazed. "They are entitled to the same rights as any person of Kemetic birth. And yet, in Albion, Kemetic citizens – immigrants and visitors alike – are obliged to forfeit their status, culture and dignity." She straightens, as her opponent peers up from lightly cupped hands. "Egypt is committed to cultural acceptance. We are willing to forgo all differences and treat all people as our own, regardless of birthplace. I do not feel that England is similarly dedicated to such cooperation."

Mai Kujaku allows a moment of silence before venturing to reply. Ishizu realises that she has pushed deeper than perhaps befits the first day of negotiations. This issue could well prove a barrier to further agreement. And yet – it cannot remain unaddressed.

"I would very much like to be given a concrete example of such... discrimination," replies the Regent, carefully. She tosses her hair once more, in a manner close to combative. "_If_ we are to repair the damage, rather than simply indulge in groundless mud-slinging." A deliberate pause. "Not that I mean to imply your concerns to be groundless. I just want evidence." This reassurance is delivered a deliberate fraction too late.

Ishizu feels Mana stiffen beside her; whether in anger or apprehension, it is impossible to deduce, for she is locked in unbreakable combat with Lady Kujaku's eyes. "Let us begin with the behaviour of Seto Kaiba," Ishizu says, evenly – yet inside, almost before the sentence was formed, she is in turmoil. _Not that – I should not have begun with that. That is the least egregious example! _She continues nonetheless, for submission would be unthinkable. "Your Highness, you must be well aware that Mr. Kaiba enjoys what is effectively a monopoly on the airship industry. His competitors are inconsequential; no engineer on the globe could hope to compare. Mr. Kaiba – whether out of principle or petulance, I make no pretension to understand – refuses to sell any airship to Kemetic customers at ordinary prices. We are expected to pay double the amount that the Albians pay. He makes no attempt at concealing this measure; it is transparent company policy. Your Highness, in allowing KaibaCorp to set such terms, you are denying us access to the skies."

She glances across at the boy King, who has observed the proceedings soundlessly for the past few hours. His face seems forcibly smooth; anguish lies perceptibly under the brittle mask of impassivity; a mask woefully cultivated and inexpertly maintained, if at all. But he does not speak.

Lady Kujaku reveals the faintest flicker of a smile. "Your Excellency ," she says, in a voice less careful than before, as though previously she was treading the tightrope, and now she is within sight of the platform. "You must appreciate that I have no control over the policy of KaibaCorp – or, indeed, any company. It is not for government to regulate the workings of business. Interference in the market is – as our economists will testify – deeply hazardous, to say nothing of damaging to the liberty of the individual." She smiles, charmingly. "You must understand my predicament."

Beneath the table, Ishizu clenches her fists so violently that she feels the flesh of her palms bruise under the pressure of her nails. "You would refuse to intervene, even to protect the right of individual equality?" she demands, battling to keep her voice light.

"I don't have a choice in the matter," says Lady Kujaku, sweepingly. "How Mr. Kaiba wishes to organise his sales is no business of the government."

"And what about the fact that those of Kemetic birth are refused all but the most menial jobs?" demands Ishizu. "In your intricate market system, not one of the major participants is of non-Albian origin. Come to that, few are of non-English origin. Would you not agree that this is discrimination?"

"I would say that perhaps the Kemetic applicants struggle to match the qualifications of Albian professionals."

Mana shudders at this lie, and this time Ishizu knows that it is out of fury, not meekness. "It s-seems you're only too happy to let business leaders act as dictators!" Mana bursts out.

Lady Kujaku raises an eyebrow. "And the slave trade in Kemet? Is that not a breach of the principle of equality?"

Ishizu holds up a conciliatory hand, preventing Mana from delivering a biting retort. Now is not the time for open hostility. "Slavery is an institutional flaw," she says, taking command of the debate once more. "Regrettable, but ineradicable for the present. We cannot simply wish it away with a clap of the hands. Surely you of all people would recognise the, ah, hazards of meddling with the established structure."

Circles: endless and dizzying. No resolution in sight. A less seasoned politician would bemoan the fact that understanding between the two factions is impossible. Ishizu knows that the trouble is the opposite; they understand each other far too well to allow for any agreement – and a little ignorance could have easily been their salvation.

**xXx**

As the gaggle of diplomats trickle out of the room, meeting adjourned for the day, Yugi darts amongst them, tearing away from the crowd as speedily as he can muster. His friends assured him that they would be waiting at the corner of the nearest corridor. They do not disappoint. All three are poised a few metres away from the door, smiling sheepishly.

Yugi flings himself towards the nearest – Jonouchi – and buries his sobs in his shoulder before his crumpled face is discernable to the politicians. Jonouchi returns the hug, somewhat awkwardly, and Anzu places a comforting hand at his shoulder. Honda, a little more timid, stands nonetheless close.

"Oh, Sophia," he says, voice emerging muffled from Jonouchi's collar. "It was _awful."_

"Let's get out of here," decides Honda, with haste. Yugi steps back with a grateful sniff. They shepherd him through familiar, winding hallways, until quickly they emerge into the gardens outside.

In tacit unanimity, they walk to the area that Yugi has always termed 'the secret garden'. It is a dense thicket of evergreens, yielding to a small, enclosed clearing, in which a grizzled oak – Yugi's favourite climbing tree – stands, a sturdy monarch amidst its frailer subjects, unmoved by the gentle breeze. The area is delightfully secluded; a small expanse of land, grass grown wild from neglect, concealed from all observers, and apparently unknown to anyone else.

For a while, they simply sit, in tentative silence at the winding roots of the oak. The days, thinks Yugi, are getting longer, and brighter. Spring will be nice, when it arrives. Yes.

... He cannot take this. He cannot force himself to sit through hours of animosity, during which he feels that he is heading exactly the wrong side of the table. He cannot sleepwalk his way through the sniping, the veiled insults and shielded threats – the contemptuous glance that the Ambassador occasionally spares him, her gaze flitting here, then away, as though he is some mildly offensive irrelevancy.

He never knew that Kemetic people were treated so badly in Albion. He has met Seto Kaiba on numerous occasions, and found him harmless enough – cold and disdainful, yes, but not hateful or petty. If anything, Kaiba ought to spare some sympathy for Kemet, for they share a common situation: he, a self-made man; they, a self-made Empire.

Two successive assassination attempts have a remarkable effect upon one's perspective. Several weeks ago, Yugi would have classed himself as having overall a fairly benign influence upon the world. He tries hard to learn; he does as he is told; he avoids hurting anyone. It is difficult to imagine what else could be expected of one individual.

But since – he has learned that there exist crimes of omission alongside crimes of intent. In refraining from meaningful intervention, he opens the floodgates of malice, allowing for as much damage as any deliberate act of harm.

A few weeks ago, during the Revealing Light attack, the revelation had been: _there are people out there who hate me. _

Now, the subsequent, chilling rejoinder occurs: _there are people out there with reason. _

He tries to explain as much. "Mai... she treated them like dirt," he says, painfully. "We're the villains here, I think," he adds, with some uncertainty.

Jonouchi shakes his head, roughly, as though attempting to clear the residue of Yugi's words from his ears. "Lady Mai wouldn't do that," he says. "You must have misunderstood something."

Yugi looks at him with imploring eyes. _I wish I had. Maybe I did? I hope so. _

Anzu stiffens. "She would," she says, softly. Fixes her eyes on the rippling grass, the soft undergrowth. Then, she rises, briskly shaking the damp out of her voluminous skirts. "I'll talk to her," she resolves, steadily. Cutting short three simultaneous objections, she reiterates: "I'll go talk to her now."

And she is gone, flitting out of the walled garden like an elusive sprite. Yugi watches her retreat, in trepidation.

Jonouchi clears his throat. "So – while we have the chance to talk," he says, uncertainly, "I, ah, don't suppose you've told Milady about the... threat from Pegasus?"

Violently, Yugi shakes his head. "I'm not about to incriminate Honda," he says, firmly.

Honda gives a start. "If that's what's stopping you – just tell her," he says. "I'll be fine. I'll get away. Move out of London. Get work someplace else, I supp –"

"_No," _says Yugi, imperatively. Surprising himself, he adds: "As your King, I command you to stay as my second bodyguard." Honda's gaze drops, chastened. "_Anyway," _Yugi says, as Jonouchi gives a pointed sniff of disgust, "I wasn't planning on telling Mai to begin with. She's got enough to worry about. This is something the three of us need to tackle on our own. We can reason with Pegasus. But don't tell Anzu, either; she'll definitely tell Mai. And I don't want _her_ to worry."

His bodyguards bristle with varying degrees of mutiny, but they recognise a direct order when it is issued, and seemingly Yugi has just issued one. Much to his own surprise.

Glancing aside, an object catches Yugi's eye. "Oh," he says, momentarily distracted. "Look."

The other two turn.

Nestled amidst the tangled roots is a miniature wicker basket. Yugi clutches at it wonderingly. _No-one is supposed to know about this place._

Gently, he empties its contents onto his lap, and gives a small squeak of delight, as a cluster of nougat candies wrapped in brightly coloured paper spill out. Nestled in the lining of the basket is a note; anonymous calligraphy streaked against thick, creamy paper.

_Yugi – things do not have to be this way. You are better than this. Teach yourself what is possible. Look beyond what you are told. I have every faith in you, Your Highness. _

**xXx**

Anzu finds her recalcitrant mentor seated in the library, thumbing through a half-cut novel. It took longer than anticipated to locate the elusive Lady Mai, and the room itself is a veritable maze of deep, wooden shelves which scrape the ceiling, and gold-emblazoned volumes that line the winding walls for what seems like miles – but Anzu is learning fast how to navigate the labyrinthine innards of the Palace.

Lady Mai smiles in greeting. "Anzu," she says, neatly laying the novel to one side, and placing the paper knife neatly adjacent. "Was just about to look for you. I thought we'd work on your speech today." She plucks a filigree box from the nearest shelf.

"Good," says Anzu, shortly. "Because I need to talk to you."

The surroundings are dimly candle-lit – an impractical yet atmospheric situation for reading – and, as a consequence, Lady Mai's eyes seem to deepen and darken; the sharp lines of her jaw soften into the tip of a fragile oval. Anzu wonders if she too looks similarly changed, as though sketched out in sepia.

"So talk," says Lady Mai, helpfully.

Previously, fuelled by unexpected fury, kindled paradoxically by the tears splashed across Yugi's cheeks, it all seemed very straightforward. She had a speech spelled out in her head, even – though Sophia knows what it was; she has forgotten every detail. There is something about the Regent's tone that erases every coherent thought in her head, dissolving them into half-sentences and disoriented babbling.

All outrage inaccessible, she manages to force out, strangled: "Why do you hate Kemet so much? Why does Mr. Kaiba?"

Lady Mai settles back into her armchair, eyes lidded, head tilted back. "I'm quite sick to death of being forced to speak on behalf of Seto Kaiba," she mutters. The jewels at her throat flash fire, as though to punctuate the point. "Come closer – you're hovering like a maladroit attendant."

Dutifully, Anzu moves to kneel on the soft floorboards beside the armchair. The smell of dust and age that clouds the tranquil chamber is permeated by Lady Mai's sharp perfume.

"Darling, I don't hate anyone," she says. Something in her tone strikes a weary chord, though perhaps this may be attributed to the embellishment of Anzu's imagination. "Choose whether or not you want to believe me, but I have nothing but respect for Ambassador Ishtar. Like me, she's a politician – and a sharp one at that – and she knows full well that were she in my position, she'd do exactly the same."

Anzu tugs uncomfortably at the fraying edge of the chair's dull embroidery, releasing further plumes of dust. They cultivate grime for the purposes of decoration, no doubt. "Not everyone's like you," she whispers; a moth-wing objection.

"It's nothing to do with vendettas or personal prejudice," says Lady Mai. Meditatively, she brushes her fingers through Anzu's hair, systematically shedding it of various pins and clasps, until it tumbles loose about her shoulders. "No – those are left outside the door if you're serious about politics. There's just the one objective, Anzu. Accumulation of power. That's all, and nothing else."

The slow motion of her fingers, combined with the staccato rhythm of her words, seem calculated to smooth all arguments – and, for a moment, Anzu leans into the touch, succumbing to the lull. _It would be so easy to vanish here, _is her initial, worrying observation. _Just to slide into the shadows. _

Moments later, she jerks her head away, disgusted at her own lack of resolve. "It doesn't matter about the reasoning!" she insists, abruptly. Her companion blinks in surprise. "The outcome's all the same, isn't it? There's more to running a country than selfishness!" Boldly, she stands.

Lady Mai allows her arm to trail over the edge of the chair, almost at the floor. With long, languid sweeps, she wafts the dust into a maelstrom of dancing particles. "Is there really anything else? All benefit stems from securing more influence for Albion. Grant Kemet equality and we equip our own rival with the means to surpass us."

Anzu stamps her foot, once, loudly. "Does it matter?" she finds herself saying. "_I'd _never have cared. What matters is that we're all _people. _I don't want better treatment than anyone else. I'd be ashamed."

Lady Mai stands, sharply. "You're already privileged above every other girl in Albion," she comments, acerbically. "A convenient vantage point from which to moralise, hmm?"

"I never _chose... _I didn't choose _that; _I chose _you – _a-and Yugi and Jonouchi," she stammers, feeling the debate slide out of her grasp. "This isn't about me – it's about Kemet." _Words are right or wrong, independent of who gives them voice. I think._

"Kemet is simply another competitor," retorts Lady Mai, and a note of urgency rises over the calm. "People – like us. People out for their own ends. If they get the better of Albion, so be it – they'll have deserved the victory – but it can only ever be won, not relinquished voluntarily. I won't lie down and act as a stepping stone for their sanctimonious Pharaoh to tread his way to ascendancy. Where would be the point in that?"

"What about _equality?" _says Anzu, with fervour. "Why does there have to be a winner?" They are standing closer now – face to uncompromising face.

"If you were playing chess, my darling, you wouldn't surrender your king mid-game," says Lady Mai, disdainfully. Her eyes are very, very intense, and very, very difficult to stare into.

Anzu gives her retort regardless. "So what if it's not a ga – mmph?" Anzu takes a reeling step backwards. She teeters, punch-drunk, before regaining a precarious kind of balance.

Lady Mai has taken what appears to be a marble from the box and popped it nonchalantly into Anzu's mouth.

"What are you _doing?" _she manages to blurt out around the obstacle.

"I told you we'd be working on your speech," smiles Lady Mai, charmingly. "Speak clearly, sweetheart. Enunciate the consonants. And do try to keep your voice a little lower; the ceiling timbers are fragile."

"Do you always do this in the middle of an argument?" demands Anzu, incredulously.

Lady Mai frowns. "Diction could be better," she opines, pushing another marble past Anzu's lips. "Probably couldn't be _louder, _though."

"You can't pi' people agains' each other – " Anzu begins, in a valiant attempt to prolong the discussion – but the sentence is brought to a premature halt by the introduction of another marble. The ensuing words emerge somewhat mangled.

"Speak _carefully," _instructs Lady Mai, impishly. "Focus."

_You are unbelievable, _thinks Anzu. And stifles an inadvertent, half-hysterical giggle before she chokes.

**xXx**

It is midnight, and as the clock along the hallway echoes its subtle chimes, Mai Kujaku presses her blazing forehead against the cold glass of the window and thinks: _I seem to have adopted a conscience. How inconvenient. _

A floor above, Yugi props up the sweltering covers with his knees and chews on an illicit piece of nougat, folding and unfolding the note as he does so, until the creases deepen and the edges fray. And he merely wonders; does not do anything nearly so concrete as suspect.

Pan across the streets of London and locate Ishizu, treading exhaustedly to the gate of her rented house, after a late excursion both fruitless and unsettling. Take a moment to notice Mana, peering concernedly through the bedroom window at her friend's arrival.

Then rise on the cold night wind to scrape the low-lying clouds, and skim across the air before darting through the hollow shell of the _Blue Eyes. _Seto Kaiba wanders the silver-piped hallways within, chasing a soft ray of blue that happened to chance upon his dozing forehead before flickering into some indeterminate distance, a few minutes before.

Plunge once more across the sky, hurtling through miles upon miles of wind, and cloud, and stellar luminescence – and perhaps pause to notice a handsome, deep blue dirigible making its way ponderously to a tentative destination – but do not linger. Travel a little further on timeless wings, and greet the _Diabound_ at midnight still – as the relentless cuckoo clock may testify. Here, Ryou lies half awake, considering the stars. (In another part of the world, in a disparate time zone, Anzu, fully awake, contemplates the same – and perhaps their gazes rest upon identical constellations.) Now and again, he catches an irregular clatter of sound – sudden, sharp and wholly inexplicable. The lamp in the thieves' room – usually kept so bright, at all hours of the night, that it filters through the cracks in the door to cast thin tongues of illumination on Ryou's wardrobe – has been unexpectedly extinguished.

At the next hour, after all their respective midnights, sleep will encompass them all. For now, they remain restless, blearily conscious and instinctively aware that some unknown shift has taken place before their sleep-dulled eyes.

**xXx**

**Extra notes:**

**- It was about time that Mai began displaying her imperialist side! That said, I did feel a little uncomfortable writing a lot of the things she said, for obvious reasons. Let's just call it Deliberate Values Dissonance and leave it at that. **

**- Mai's rather unorthodox schooling methods – i.e. using marbles in the mouth to improve diction - are lifted directly from **_**My Fair Lady, **_**based on Shaw's **_**Pygmalion,**_** the latter of which was one of the key inspirations for **_**Stars From the Gutter. **_

**- On the last section: yes, I know midnight would occur at different times in different time zones. That's why the hypothetical observer's wings are **_**timeless. **_***Totally didn't write that section without realising, and then alter it slightly when Aluminium pointed it out*. **


	11. Chapter 11

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...**_

**Ryou goes all introspective on the raindrops, manages to put his foot in his mouth, and is fondly yet resoundingly mocked for it. Mana and Ishizu head off to the first round of diplomatic talks with Atem in tow. Ishizu and Mai engage in an antagonistic political face-off with regards to the treatment of Kemetic citizens in Albion territory, ending in a fraught stalemate. Anzu, Jonouchi and Honda eavesdrop on the meeting; Yugi exits, somewhat tearstained. They head to their favourite haunt in the palace gardens. Here, Yugi's anguish at Mai's gung-ho approach to foreign policy becomes apparent; Anzu resolves to go speak to her mentor on the issue. Yugi discovers a basket in the roots of the tree containing sweets and an anonymous note. Anzu confronts Mai and ends up with a mouthful of marbles for her troubles. We conclude with a focus on all our major characters at midnight, each experiencing their own different turning point. Which brings us to the next morning... **

**xXx**

All is ill at ease at one half of the quasi-royal breakfast table. Specifically, the side of genuine quasi-royalty. Anzu, the other half, seems considerably more relaxed. The first incidence of toast and tea with the King's Regent has solidified into something resembling comfortable routine. Yugi and Jonouchi – and now that new guard, Honda, who seemed to simply _appear _one moment and never leave, with little prompting from anyone as far as Mai can gather – leave early more often than not. They depart with haste, grabbing a fistful of bread rolls, or the odd bunch of grapes, and propelling themselves outdoors at what Mai, an inveterately late riser, deems the first flush of dawn (what others, more reasonably, might term 5-6:00am). So company is often curtailed to encompass just the two of them; Anzu's dainty cup of Earl Gray shadowed by Mai's black coffee at a prim little table cloaked in silken white cloth. Anzu once remarked that the room resembles an incredibly fancy teashop for two, complete with quaint lace hangings and unusually shaped teapots adorning the window sill. Mai was laughingly inclined to agree, indicating that the palace holds the most charming scenes from all aspects of interior life, and the gardens the exterior; in short, why ever venture outside the gates?

Anzu simply giggled at the time, with the ease of one who could not imagine taking the suggestion seriously. Lucky for some.

Today, Mai is nowhere near so sanguine. In fact, she is currently face to face with an uncomfortable reminder in bold, slightly smudged newsprint of how boundaries yield to all forms of unpleasantness once quitted. With a thwarted snap, she folds the newspaper in two, obscuring a front page most offensive to the eyes.

Anzu looks up around the rim of her teacup, questioningly. How very pert. Yes, she has a very charming kind of pertness.

"Too annoyed to explain," mutters Mai; even to her own ears, it rings a little sullen, a little childish. "Damn Otogi," she adds, dimly aware that such an enigmatic little outburst will only serve to heighten the girl's curiosity.

With a fluttering sigh, she pushes the paper over to Anzu. Inquisitively, Anzu unfolds it (with a little roll of the eyes at Mai's unnecessary melodrama) to peer at the headline. 'NOBLES ATTACKED BY ITINERANT THIEVES'.

"Huh," she says. Blunt, expressive and straight to the point, one must admit; both the headline and the response.

"My thoughts exactly," agrees Mai, darkly.

"Who is Otogi?" inquires Anzu.

"A Goddess-damned, incompetent layabout who can't stay on the job without letting slips like _this _occur," replies Mai, promptly. Then, after a reprimanding look from Anzu, she elaborates."A bounty hunter. I sent him to _catch _these people – not to allow them to attack Albians! I was told he was the best. By people other than him, even. He's never failed before. Never been clumsy. He's always been reliable-to-middling. These things are a game to him, and if there's one thing he's serious about, it's games."

Anzu blinks, half-comprehendingly. Then, with one of those unexpected flashes of perception that she so often displays: "Maybe he's found a more interesting game?"

Oh _hell. _Another extraordinary thing about those precise little sparks of insight: quite often, they are unnervingly correct. Mai feels a headache begin to scrabble at her temples. _Foreign policy. So dreadfully hazardous to the health._

**xXx**

Three o'clock, and Mokuba is finishing his lesson work; his brother makes for an exacting tutor, and punctuality is his most prominent demand. Sheets of formulae litter the desk of his and Kaiba's shared study, a place decorated in solemn mahogany, reserved for algebra and airship blueprints. They have spent many an afternoon here, engrossed in their work, and today is no exception: Kaiba idly watches his brother complete a particularly difficult problem with a flick of his pen, absorbed in thought.

A brief knock at the door causes them both to glance up in irritation. "Come in," says Kaiba curtly, motioning with one hand for Mokuba to continue writing.

Kumo enters. Kaiba is sure that Kumo knows his employer well enough to interrupt him with only the most serious news when he is in the study with Mokuba. Indeed, Kumo appears somewhat apprehensive, taking his time to speak – which only compounds Kaiba's exasperation. "Mr Kaiba. The Duke of Wellington is here to see you."

At this, Mokuba gingerly places down his pen. He shoots Kaiba a meaningful look, who merely shrugs in response. "See him in. Tell him that I will be with him immediately."

As soon as Kumo leaves, Kaiba turns. "Well, Mokuba?"

"The Duke of Wellington-" Mokuba sputters, "that's Pegasus!"

"Yes," says Kaiba wryly, "I am well aware."

"He's the one who hired the cab driver to murder us, Seto. You mustn't see him. He wants you dead!"

A raised eyebrow at his earnestness. "That may well be." Kaiba stands, inspecting his shirt for nonexistent ink blemishes. "However, I can hardly keep a guest waiting. Besides, he merely wished to give us a message. I am sure that he is visiting to elaborate on the matter."

Leaving Mokuba bereft of coherence, he steps out. The hall is dark and foreboding, and he pays its shadows no heed, stepping lightly down the staircase.

He finds Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington, reclining upon a sofa in his living room. Kaiba briefly considers the cost required to have the thing incinerated once his visitor has left, but decides that, on the whole, his dislike of the Duke is not nearly as important as his fondness for his hand sprung, birch framed furniture, and dismisses the notion.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," he greets Pegasus, crisply enunciating the title with the necessary undertone of derision. He takes a seat across the table, adding as an afterthought, "I was not expecting your arrival."

Pegasus laughs, throaty and good natured, and it sets Kaiba's teeth on edge. "Oh, I was in the neighbourhood. Surely the presence of a fellow creative type is a gift, to one as… talented as yourself?" The pause is perfectly audible.

"Indeed," Kaiba replies cordially, "your drawing was most creative. It is to be a great inspiration for all the novelists of our time."

Pegasus' smile merely widens. "Novelists? Why, Mr Giffard was far more complementary when I approached him with my designs. I am shocked by your lack of faith, Mr Kaiba."

Kaiba's immediate retort is stifled as Kumo enters with sandwiches and tea, and for a moment, all is calm once more, with the Duke and the engineer daintily sipping at their respective beverages. Kaiba, leaning back in his chair, considers the leaves in the base of his cup. If anyone would develop Pegasus' fanciful designs, it would be Kaiba's greatest rival: Henri Giffard. The man is old, and his ideas in the field will be outdated within the year, if Kaiba has his way. Besides, he is French.

"Giffard wishes to present my designs to London's university in three months time."

Kaiba gently replaces his teacup on its saucer.

"It seems hasty, I know," continues Pegasus, "but this airship would be revolutionary. It would bring boundless changes to the field." He inspects a cucumber sandwich, before peering at Kaiba innocently through his eyelashes. "Yet, I feel a strange sense of déjà vu, saying all this. It seems I've heard it before – though, last time, the promises felt rather empty. Where was it…?"

Kaiba schools his expression. Again he must think of the furniture – blood would be so unsightly.

Pegasus answers his own question with contemptuous glee. "I recall it being in the Crystal Palace. Was the KC-01 not designed to 'open the gates to a new age'? A cheap engine built to accommodate only Kaiba Corporation airship models, using a new alloy to prevent overreliance on increasingly costly reserves of aluminium. A good idea, certainly – and little else. Is the great Seto Kaiba all talk? When Giffard presents my ship, this is certainly a question people will be asking themselves."

Taking a bite of his own sandwich, Kaiba considers. The cucumber seems bitter. Perhaps it is out of season. As is the Duke, in terms of his position with regards to the current monarch's favour. Presumably, this is the cause of Pegasus' paltry threats. "I suppose you want something in return for my co-operation."

"Quite possibly," replies Pegasus, his tone enigmatic.

"I have no time for games, Your Grace."

"And nor do I." Pegasus picks up a second sandwich. "These are _delightful_, by the way. You treat your guests so well!" He titters, happily.

Kaiba does not sink to giving him a dark look, but rather, remains forcible impassive. "I try. Returning to the matter at hand-"

"I say! Is this sofa birch framed? Such nice fabric, too…"

Impossible. The man is _diverting the conversation_. With domestic trivialities, of all things. Kaiba would laugh, but he is afraid that, should he fail to keep his face expressionless, he would be more likely to retch.

Within the next twenty seconds, he comes to realise that he has lost their battle. He cannot pry another word from the Duke about any matters pertaining to airships, Giffard or, indeed, death threats. He sees the man out as soon as possible, after the minimum number of polite inanities needed to constitute a conversation have passed.

Then he returns to his brother, whom he has so rudely kept waiting. He far prefers correcting Mokuba's imperfect understanding of mathematics to regaling him with the longwinded and altogether pointless tale of his and Pegasus' conversation, so he allows the matter to rest, and Mokuba does not pursue it.

The rest of Kaiba's afternoon is spent in quiet contemplation. He must, he recalls, consider himself fully booked in the coming April. There are battles that remain to be planned for.

**xXx**

The continuous stream of chatter fades to an unintelligible trickle, as Atem allows his attention to drift. The second round of diplomatic talks has run along relatively smooth lines thus far. Between the formidable Ishizu and the poisonous Lady Kujaku, there has been no more than the usual chary antagonism. He blots out all sound, for consideration of Yugi's face consumes his senses. His brother is lost, gaze cast miserably down to the tips of his fingers – and yet, he concentrates, for he twitches at every sentence. Atem shifts uncomfortably, pulling his voluminous hood further about his face.

The background hum gains a sharper edge, and Atem snaps back to attention.

"It appears we are here under false pretences," says Ishizu. _Glacial_, her voice. "The Kemetic consul were under the impression that this trip was to bring about peace. Instead, somewhat inexplicably, we find ourselves preparing for war."

Atem blinks back into focus. _What did she say? Tell me it isn't all going sour just two days in; tell me it isn't falling apart so soon... _

Mai tuts, softly, amidst frantic murmurs from either side of the conference table. "I merely bring up the _suggestion –" _she begins, her tone sheathed with conciliation, but audibly impatient.

Yet a surge of rage seems to have eradicated all Ishizu was ever taught about etiquette, for her interruption is prompt and furious. "Egypt will not function as Britain's imperial lackey!" she snaps. "Whatever bout of adventurism you have planned in South America is none of Kemet's concern."

Ah. South America. A touchy subject, to say the least. And hardly conducive to amicable peace arrangements.

Why exactly has Mai Kujaku introduced the issue of Kemet and Albion's greatest rival?

In truth, the term 'rival' singular is inaccurate; the region consists of various disparate states, all under the command of separate governments. Many of whom, following the French experiment, incorporate varying elements of democracy. Moreover, though North America remains a colony of Albion (safely flourishing under the wing of imperial power for decades, following a short-lived, unsuccessful revolt in 1776) South America is staunchly independent. Independent, albeit fragmented – and yet, for the past decade, the prospect of unification has shadowed all imperial discourse with the dark cast of imminent threat.

If Atem is not very much mistaken, Mai has given voice to this tacit concern. Given voice – and more, judging by the tremor in Ishizu's voice.

"This is not and will never be a military alliance," says Ishizu, measured and firm. Yet such control can do little to erase the stain of her previous outburst.

With all those flares they have pelted at each others' defences, it is little wonder that one of them should break. In an atmosphere too tense for calm to be perpetuated, ineluctably one of them would choke. Atem had simply wished it would not be Ishizu.

Well – and what if the opening gambit is lost? That says nothing with regards to the outcome of the final battle.

Ignore Mai's predatory smile – shamelessly unconcealed.

_Please say something, Yugi. Please speak. _

(Vain hope; no response.)

"You misunderstand my intentions," says Mai. "I only wished to introduce the possibility of a _defensive _alliance. Should South America become a menace, we shall support one another in combat. That is all. Albion does not plan to be the aggressor – and nor, I imagine, does Kemet. Yet, if external forces dictate that we should find ourselves at war with a third party... I believe it would be in our best interests to protect each other."

Ishizu looks sharply away, for all of a split second – and Atem can translate her expression with alarming ease. _If _you _find yourselves at war... Albion can go rot for all I care. _

She does not say as much; for which Atem is thankful. She settles for a terse, scarcely audible reply: "You overstep the mark, Your Highness."

"I believe that to be a contradiction in terms," is Mai's smug reply. "There is no mark to overstep. No boundaries to any achievement."

"Indeed," says Ishizu, gripping the edge of the table with venom. "Boundaries are there to be scorned; that is your philosophy. Both political, and... personal."

Incomprehensible and vague as the statement is, it seems to achieve the desired effect. Mai drops the topic like a startled cat, and the discourse drifts elsewhere.

**xXx**

Leaning over the escritoire, Ishizu dawdles over her letter, methodically chewing the edge of the quill. She lets the ink drip in particles to stain the blotter with esoteric, irregular patterns. Damned if she knows how to report to Mahaado. How to condense the events of the past week and leave the truth, if not intact, then at least virtually unscathed? How to quell the potentially incendiary?

In other words, how best to lie, effectively and unobtrusively?

Normally, this would lie firmly within her area of expertise. Tonight – some kind of block has struck.

Possibly she simply has too many separate strands of thought, all jostling for consideration in the back of her mind. (Determinedly, she forces them back down, to no avail.) Tonight at dinner, for instance, when Atem disappeared on one of his lovely evening ramblings, ostensibly touring the more murderous of London's alleyways. Mana tapped, birdlike, at her fragile teacup, before saying: _I don't know where you've been going every night, but whatever it is, be careful - agreed? I'll only play deaf and dumb as long as I know you're safe. _

To which Ishizu replied:_ I'm hardly about to plunge voluntarily into peril. _

_I'm assuming I shouldn't even bother to get you to tell me what it is you're doing? Asking for a hint would be silly, right? _

_Family matters, is all. _

Or perhaps it is yesterday's one-to-one interview with Lady Kujaku that ushers out all other considerations. Certainly she is playing an increasingly reckless hand – and yet, if properly exploited, potentially rewarding. Little to fret over; everything to gain, Ishizu assures herself.

A trickle of breeze creeps through the crack of an open window, allowing the unwritten letter to flutter, as though feebly intent on escape.

Nothing to be done; she will report tomorrow once her head clears. Tonight – it spins at too great a velocity to control.

**xXx**

The sun sets over Rome's intricate streets, casting filigree buildings in swathes of gold that shimmer amidst a fleecy net of gray, threatening storm. Gold, and black, and something incommensurably spectacular, thinks Marik – something that seems to spell enticing disaster. A scene whose majesty rivals that of Egypt, for certain – but unmistakeably a nation under Kemetic dominion. None of that staid Albian glamour here; rather something exotic, untamed. He loves the very idea of this city. Its reality even more so.

The _Diabound _makes its jerky, haphazard way to comparatively clear ground. Marik expected nothing better, given who happens to be steering (_"Freeze, brat. Don't let me catch you anywhere near the control room, else we'll end up face first in the fucking Colosseum.") _– Bakura's self-professed navigational skills are greatly exaggerated. Marik makes no hesitation in yelling something to that effect from the confines of the living room (an area that Bakura deemed a 'safe distance' from all things technological). He is answered by something irate, incoherent and most likely irrelevant.

Chuckling, he moves over to where Ryou stands, transfixed by the view from the window.

"It's all so... glossy," marvels the boy – amusingly rapt. "Glistening. Like someone emptied a flare out onto the streets."

Intriguing imagery that, if not quite internally coherent. Marik slings an arm about Ryou's shoulders. "Tonight's just a glimpse. A sedate stroll down starlit streets – then back to the _Diabound _for some rest. We'll sightsee properly tomorrow morning."

Ryou pouts, to rather disconcerting effect. "Can't we stay at an inn, or a hotel? I want to be in the city _properly _tonight!"

Marik laughs, teasing his fingers through Ryou's fine, baby-thin hair. "S'cheaper this way," he says, brushing off the demand with equal ease.

In return, he is greeted with a sceptical look. Really, those newfound _expressions! _Though, in all fairness, the excuse was a far cry from convincing; Bakura and Marik live like emperors – and, for the most part, consider any expense spared to be a colossal waste of resources. Ah, but the demon child shall have to be satisfied with the illogical reasoning for the moment – stubborn as he is. Marik is hardly going to supply him with anything more.

And aside from one eyebrow, pointedly lifted, Ryou makes no further remark on the matter. Instead, he ventures: "A 'stroll down starlit streets' wouldn't happen to involve moderate acts of thievery, would it?"

"Indeed it would," confirms Marik, teeth a-glitter in an anticipatory grin.

"We're certainly dressed for the occasion," says Ryou, smiling back.

Following the principle that they prefer to be strangers in a strange land wherever they happen to wander, Bakura and Marik decided unanimously that they would be Albian for tonight. Hence, it is to be a veritable extravaganza of trim, claret-coloured overcoats that veer inward and outward in a pattern both sharp and sleek; silky gushes of cravats, tied immaculately – if somewhat anachronistically - _a la _Beau Brummel; velvet waistcoats cinched tight as any lady's corset; and, naturally, the indispensable addition of cloak and cane, introducing that obligatory spark of flair to any ensemble.

Marik has always enjoyed the occasions in which he can be Albian.

"You've forgotten your hat," he reprimands, pedantically. With obedient haste, Ryou disentangles himself and runs to fetch it from where it hangs on a bright yellow stand near the doorway. "And remember – in Albion, they call it the _dishonest appropriation of property belonging to another_."

There is a long, jolting clatter as the _Diabound _plunges to earth. Ryou's hat, precariously balanced, topples from his head. Marik stumbles a little, catching hold of an armchair for stability.

Bakura emerges from the control room in a faint haze of dust. "With the _intention to permanently deprive_," he adds, tweaking at Marik's lapels, which seem to have come askew. "We've landed," he adds, somewhat superfluously.

"You know, I always forget that part," muses Marik, brushing Bakura's hands aside with impatience.

"I know," says Bakura, flatly. "As soon as we take something, you're downright adamant that we give it away."

"Some would call it philanthropy," says Marik, with a touch of mischief.

"And others would call it a damned nuisance," is the prompt reply. "What's in an epithet? Now let's move. We mustn't deprive the brat of his first glance at the city."

**xXx**

The next few days pass in a happy, Italian blur. Ryou finds that the agonising pick-pocketing lessons were not wasted – for, though acquired through a somewhat painful process, they have proved invaluable. Wandering amidst the thronging crowds near every major landmark, he has encountered plenty of opportunities to practice. His thieves comment quite ungenerously on the general lack of perspicacity shown by your average aimless tourist, and the probable correlation between this factor and his increased success; this, however does nothing to dull the shine of his happiness.

Here, the very air tastes of olives. It is garnished with a tangy sort of zest, and served up to the palate with that warm exuberance which permeates all aspects of the city. The smooth cobbles and buildings are glossed with a sheen reminiscent of liquid sun, or melted butter – here the luminescent twines bizarrely with the culinary - and Ryou frequently feels that he is drowning in it all. Nonetheless. It is a pleasant, airy sort of drowning, and he finds he is quite enamoured with the experience in general. Floating. It is rather like floating. Perhaps he is floating, after all. He has never been outside of a small, concentrated network of dilapidated streets in Alexandria. Perhaps that accounts for what feels rather like a decidedly pleasant form of motion sickness.

By day, the three thieves – and Ryou is absurdly proud to be able to refer to them so, rather than the previous epithet, _the two thieves and their inexplicably acquired hostage _– frolic amidst the crowds as Albian tourists, doing (contrary to expectation) all those things that one would ordinarily assume tourists do. Or, rather, Ryou _assumes _they would assume so; tourism is hardly an area with which he is particularly familiar. One patch of dusty ground looks rather the same as the next, and all are too dismal to find much comfort in variety.

Here, every patch of ground seems fitted for wonders.

He plunges headlong into this bizarre occupation of the nobility known as _tourism _with abandon, trailing excitedly behind his thieves as they guide him through squares, monuments, towers – honey-coloured buildings enclosing art galleries, cathedrals, museums... The list continues ceaselessly; he finds he cannot separate one experience from another – all have mingled into one, warm haze in his mind.

They take a trip to the Colosseum, with Marik happily trilling facts in relation to its history – _"Construction began in 72 AD and ended in 80 AD. Eight years! Can you imagine? When certain medieval buildings took generations! And yet, it saw the advent of another Emperor midway – shows you something about the stability of such regimes..." _– and Bakura contentedly radiating utter disdain for being, in his words '_drowned in the muck of your babbling history-deluge, you godsdamned_ _bibliophile'_.

("Shouldn't we get a guidebook?" Ryou inquires, tentatively, one morning at a museum.

"Wretch," says Bakura, seriously, with a long-suffering sigh, as Marik wanders from room to room, marvelling loudly at the contents of each exhibit, "the brat _is _the guidebook.")

However, Bakura perks up considerably at the mention of gladiatorial shows – to a rather alarming degree, for that matter. It seems that, indifferent as he is to the lives of Emperors long since deceased, he is completely at home hearing tales of mass torture, animal hunts, and blood-drenched battles staged in elaborately constructed settings. In fact, his enthusiasm for such stories knows no bounds. He and Marik form an equilibrium of sorts; Bakura is perfectly content to subject his ears to 'historo-babble' so long as it involves a suitable amount of senseless carnage, whilst Marik is delighted to narrate, and even perform, lengthy tales of the same. The two stride across the walkway that bridges the centre, animatedly eulogizing on the topic of murder, injury and entertainment.

Ryou, for his part, finds that standing at the centre of this gargantuan theatre borders on unsettling. Squinting at countless rows of pillars on tall tiers where, he is informed, spectators once stood, he feels scrutinised by a thousand hollow eyes. The empty Colosseum gapes at him. It is like peering into hundreds of open, decaying wounds. Marik might find it beautiful – and in an odd, objective way, it is – but he cannot see it as anything other than haunting. And, oh, yes, there are other people – great throngs of tourists, all, incidentally, with pockets brimming with spare change – but they are creatures of another age, and thus irrelevant. The building itself remains untouched by their wanderings.

He ducks along through a corridor, on a whim – longing, above all for enclosure, sanctuary – and hides himself somewhere along the first floor, finding a small alcove in which he crouches, arms curled defensively around his knees. Too much light. Too much space. He wraps himself in cooling darkness, and breathes uninhibited for a few moments. Then, inexplicable fears momentarily assuaged, he lifts his eyes to the bright air once more, allowing light to seep back through the half-closed mesh of his lashes. He contemplates the walls. The brickwork is so intricate; the stones so small – terrifying to think how long construction must have taken, and how arduous the task...

Now that his calm is restored, he can appreciate the splendour of this place. In all honesty, the memory of exactly what frightened him is rapidly trickling away. He is glad of it.

When he returns to the centre, he finds his thieves surrounded by bemused onlookers, engaged in what appears to be a no-holds-barred battle to the death with their jewel-tipped walking canes.

"And – _Thraeces," _says Marik, breathlessly blocking an assault, "wore broad-rimmed helmets – " briefly, he doffs his silken bowler hat " - carried small shields – and – were armed with a curved – sword..." He jabs the cane in Bakura's direction. From the looks of things, they have diverged from mere narrative into a practical demonstration of the gladiatorial arena.

Bakura parries skilfully, slicing at the air with his impromptu weapon. A faint breeze stirs. "Which would I be?" he demands, sun-drenched and sparkling with perspiration. Ryou is not sure what the correct name would be, but he admits that, even clad in an embroidered frock-coat, Bakura carries the magnetic aura of a fighter.

Marik considers, whilst dodging another attack. "_Dimanchaerii," _he decides, shortly. "Armed with two knives." He ducks, just in time.

Bakura grins, appreciatively. There is an excited murmur from the crowd, as Marik takes the opportunity to lunge forwards – only to be met with another, equal blow from his partner. Ryou winces. _Their play-fights always seem far too earnest for comfort. _And yet, they seem to both be enjoying this beyond words. Unfathomable creatures.

"What about you?" asks Bakura, with a hiss of breath as he veers out of the way. "What type of gladiator would you be?" He edges away, fractionally. The crowd hustles back hurriedly to accommodate him.

Marik smiles – all sly teeth and subtlety. "_Retiarii," _he says, without hesitation.

They have paused, for a moment, canes held defensively against their chests, breath lightly audible from exertion. "And what's that?" asks Bakura, gruffly.

"Net fighter," says Marik, smile practically _gleaming. _Before Bakura can properly register this, he whips off his cloak and flings it over his partner. Bakura stumbles disorientated, before tumbling to the floor with a startled yelp. "Victory goes to the _retiarii!" _proclaims Marik, triumphantly, punching the air. The audience laughingly applauds.

Bakura, now sprawled across the ground, gives the cloak an indignant yank, freeing himself. A few strands of his hair, Ryou notes, are now standing perpendicular, to rather comic effect. He seems to be undecided as to whether he ought to be infuriated, amused or grudgingly impressed – for all three emotions flit across his face in rapid succession. They collapse into good humour, and amusement wins over, though not without a touch of cunning.

Magnanimously, Marik leans down to give Bakura a hand up – and, naturally, is pulled violently to the floor, in a torrent of dust and indisputably ruined clothing. More laughter from those who still linger.

"_Brat," _concludes Bakura, with no small amount of satisfaction.

Marik sits up, a little dazed. "Cheat," he says, fondly, wiping a fleck of dirt off Bakura's nose. They exchange slow, furtive smiles.

Later, when they are sauntering down the Campidoglio Square with bowls of ice cream, Marik remarks: "Actually, we'd both be _Noxii _– criminals. And probably blindfolded. But what of it?" And then sets about licking the line of melted ice cream that has trickled down the side of his wrist. Ryou cannot decide whether he finds the comment harmless or disturbing.

**xXx**

Otogi is feeling unappreciated. Having scoured land and sky for weeks, leaving not even the dustiest, least threatening towns in the back end of Moldavia uninvestigated, he has yet to see hide or hair of Kemet's most notorious thieves. He has made sure to keep Lady Kujaku well informed throughout, and yet all he has received in response to his reports are impeccably polite, slightly troubling letters. Each warns him in no uncertain terms of the dangers to his Nation's foreign affairs, should he fail to apprehend the criminals, whilst subtly implying that his own well being is in a similarly precarious state.

Naturally, he decides that the situation is hopeless, and sets a course for Italy. After all, he has always wanted to see St. Peter's Basilica, and he has heard that the Impressionist movement is just taking off in Rome.

Thus, three days later, after an afternoon spent perusing some of the local art galleries, he finds himself sharing a glass of wine and a game of cards with a boy of about eighteen, whose inhibitions, judging by his chatter, have been slightly dulled by alcohol – though his fear of strangers is most likely lacking at the best of times.

"So then," the boy says, brushing a few strands of bright white hair over one shoulder, "they grabbed me by the wrist, and took me back to the ship!"

"Really," says Otogi, hoping that his acquaintance will cease with the fantasies and get back to the game. "I suppose that its hull was made of diamonds, and there was a beautiful princess living below deck."

"No," comes the blithe response, "The Diabound's not made of diamonds! That would be silly!" There is a pause, during which the boy appears to ponder the mysteries of the nature of the universe, and also the tablecloth. "And I don't think the thieves are really princesses. They just act like it, occasionally."

It takes a few seconds for this to truly sink in. "Right," says Otogi, mentally thanking Sophia for all the good fortune which she has somehow – in her deep and unfathomable inscrutability – seen fit to grant him, "what did you say your name was, again?"

"Ryou Bakura, of course!"

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- Been a while since we've heard from Otogi, hmm? Not to worry; as you can see, he hasn't been forgotten. **

**- All the gladiator-related information is accurate – or, at least, so Wikipedia reliably informs me. **

**- Henri Giffard was a real French inventor and engineer from the 19****th**** century. Here, he is Kaiba's greatest (and most irritating) competitor. **


	12. Chapter 12

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter... **_

**Anzu and Mai breakfast together, and are interrupted by unpleasant news: namely, the attack on the Albian Carraway family by travelling Kemetic thieves. Mai doubts Otogi's commitment to his task. Meanwhile, Seto and Mokuba are also interrupted – by a deeply unwanted guest, Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington and former advisor to the previous monarch. Pegasus informs Kaiba of a new, revolutionary ship design that will, in all likelihood, put Kaibacorp out of business. To add insult to the injury, said design has allegedly been constructed by his French rival, Giffard. Kaiba remains unimpressed. This exposited, Pegasus then refuses to disclose further details, and moves rather unhelpfully onto the topic of the weather. At the diplomatic conference table, Atem watches Yugi fail to speak with growing trepidation. Mai insinuates that the talks may lead to a military alliance against South America; Ishizu loses her temper at this. She retaliates with a statement that is incomprehensible to all listeners, but seems to quiet the King's Regent. Later, at home, after considering the previous events of the day (hitherto unseen by the reader) Ishizu ponders how exactly to send her report back to Mahaado; i.e. how much embellishment the truth can stand. She reflects that she is playing a dangerous game. Elsewhere, the thieves enjoy a relaxing holiday in Rome: visiting the Colosseum; annoying each other with historical trivia; playfighting... We then cut to Otogi, who has stumbled upon an intoxicated Ryou Bakura. For now, however, we return to England with...**

**xXx**

Today falls squarely into the category of Things Which Were In No Way Anzu Mazaki's Idea. Thus, the fact that it is also encompassed by the classification of Things Which Make Lady Mai Kujaku Inexplicably Disapproving is purely coincidental, and wholly out of anyone's control, save the shaky autonomy of His Majesty. Nonetheless, Anzu feels suitably cowed. That one, frosty glance the King's Regent spared her before determinedly refusing to look again was enough to bring on a crazed, irrational kind of guilt.

Today, the King requested – well. No. He ordered, frankly. Admittedly, yes, it was phrased in the manner of a request – but Anzu is canny enough to realise that a meek suggestion from royalty amounts to the most uncompromising of commands from any other person who does _not _happen to be Sophia's representative on earth, best friend or no. Regardless – he asked her to accompany him to the third session of peace talks with Kemet; to speak up on his behalf. _I'm lost in there, _he admitted. _They talk in a way that ties my tongue in knots. You'll do better than me; you'll know if they're wrong. I'd like it if you could help me. _And who was she to argue with so seemingly innocuous a favour?

Yet Lady Mai's reaction was instantaneous – and pure poison. Now Anzu looks down at her hands as she feels the speech puddle around her like so much dirty rainwater. She is left shivering and paralysed by perplexed remorse. Some unintentional _faux pas? _Or is she simply dabbling in an inappropriate sphere? Anzu burns her gaze onto the side of Lady Mai's unrelenting head - that refuses so steadfastly to turn – glaring across Yugi's static fronds of hair. Sears an invisible message into the delicate curve of her neck: _I'm harmless. I'm not saying a thing. So why...?_

Between the two of them, Yugi inclines his head sympathetically towards Anzu and reaches for her hand. Anzu squeezes his fingers, half-heartedly comforted.

Lady Mai is now speaking, with such a total air of command that Anzu cannot help but freeze, attentive to the point of enthrallment. She has never seen the Lady so masterful; ordinarily she carries a nigh-perpetual air of assurance, but _this_ is imposing, stern and uncompromising – so much so that Anzu cannot help but flinch at every syllable that resounds a fraction louder than its clipped companions.

Oh, and she is saying something, too. (Easy to understand how Yugi may be rendered so easily tongue-tied.)

"I would argue that Prussia is of the _utmost_ concern," she replies to some faint objection broached by the Ambassador seated opposite. "It is a wholly inexplicable chunk of Kemetic territory within a colossal expanse of Albian borders. How it came to be owned by Egypt is no doubt due to some historical irregularity; the majority of the population speak English as their native language. By rights, it is halfway Albian already." She quirks a mischievous eyebrow towards the Kemetic consul.

Yugi taps Anzu on the arm. Surreptitiously, he slides a twist of paper in her direction. Anzu obediently covers it with her hand. Upon discreet investigation (no-one is looking in her direction anyway, least of all Lady Mai) it is found to read in calligraphic scrawl: _She's trying to con them out of territory. Am I right?_

Slowly, Anzu nods. _Major territory, too. _Prussia, from what she has gleaned from the Regent's discarded newspapers, is a colonial nation in turmoil. Its citizens are torn every which way: Kemetic loyalists; Albian aspirants; those seeking independence and possible unification with the neighbouring Germanic states. Day by day, it becomes increasingly more unstable. There have been demonstrations against Kemetic rule already: people in the streets, pacified hastily by the imperial police – yet collective discontent seems trickier to eradicate than the individual instigators of riots.

When Yugi pins her with an insistent look, Anzu realises she cannot hold her silence. Not when she has orders – or rather, a request – to fulfil. Timidly, she clears her throat. A stony silence sweeps across the diplomats. "Ah..." she begins, a tad incoherently. _Sophia d-n it, speak _words, _girl! _"Ahm, I was w-wondering..."

It seems Milady is not composed of obdurate stone after all, for she turns with muted shock to catch the end of Anzu's stammered interjection. Confusion soon ices over into disdain. "Oh? Do enlighten us on what elicits your wonderment, Miss Mazaki; I am sure the consul is dying of curiosity."

Well. _Well! _Anzu wishes Lady Mai would strive for a little civility; that show of vindictiveness was quite unbecoming. And unnecessary; completely unnecessary! "I will," she says, clarity of tone something of a pleasant surprise, even to her. "I will. Did it ever occur to you that the Prussians might want to _choose _whose dominion they end up under?" _That's it. Fudged the grammar a little, mind, but the meaning came across nice and clear. Keep going. Gosh, don't they look shocked? _"I m-mean," she says, stumbling again. Swallowing the hesitation, she makes another attempt. "What I mean to say is that it seems rather unfair not to give them a say in the matter. They'll be the ones closely affected after all."

There is an uncomfortable moment of steely silence. Then - unexpected peals of laughter ricochet across the walls, rebounding through the room only to bounce back to their point of origin: the lovely, mirth-creased face of Lady Mai. _Oh, you. _"Ahaha, very droll, darling," she says, as the giggles subside. "A wonderful jest, truly. I suppose you would ask the farmers in Prussian fields what they think of imperial strategy? Request the opinion of workmen on the streets in order to glean a _fair _foreign policy? Ah, yes. I do believe that would be their area of expertise. I can think of no people better qualified to detail the running of an illustrious empire, I'm sure." A contemptuous toss of the head renders her words well and truly insincere, in case the message was not already thoroughly underlined – and then some.

Reassured laughter echoes sycophantically across the table – though the Ambassador's face remains an inscrutable mask. Anzu feels her cheeks begin to burn decidedly scarlet. Nonetheless resolute, she springs to her feet in a waterfall of pastel skirts. "A-and another thing!" she splutters, defiantly. "I'm fairly sure the native language of Prussia is _German, _not English. Unless that doesn't count?"

Parting blow thus issued, she wrenches her spindly chair out of the way and stalks out of the room in an indignant flutter of gauze and petticoats.

**xXx**

_A plebiscite. She suggested a plebiscite in Prussia. In front of the Kemetic consul. _Mai cannot decide if she is appalled or impressed. The slip of a girl from _Bandits _has exceeded all expectations. Come to that, she has also defied all bounds of proprietary and sense – but how Mai failed to foresee this for the ineluctable occupational hazard it was to become is beyond her. _Not that it would have mattered. It's just that... this is exceedingly badly timed. _

She excused herself early, after that debacle. It was humiliatingly clear to all that she departed in order to clear up a mess of her own devising – effectively putting a halt to negotiations for the day. No matter. Let them lick yesterday's wounds – and the Albians will do the same.

She remembers cornering the Ambassador at the end of yesterday's meeting, under the pretext of offering to show her a unique painting by a renowned Kemetic artist in one of the Palace's many tea rooms. _Talking of wounds..._

_No sooner has the door had slid closed, Mai is all business, rounding on Ishizu like a wildcat – though careful to frame her thwarted fury with words of immaculate serenity. "I would love to know, Your Excellency, exactly what you imagined you were implying before." As usual, the outward show of civility chimes dissonant to the mood. _

"_I am afraid I do not grasp your meaning..." Ishizu blinks – inquiring eyes briefly curtained. _

"_No games, Ambassador. Unless you care to explain what you were playing during the meeting. 'Boundaries are there to be scorned; both political and personal'." Mai smoothes her skirts, and coolly takes a seat. "You don't strike me as the sort to throw words about at random. And yet –I find your meaning escapes me."_

_Ishizu turns, fractionally, to scan the gilt-edged frame that clings to the wall. "It is a lovely piece," she comments, simply. The painting depicts a landscape alight with the glow of sunset; azure meets a wash of orange, glossed over a sweep of desert sand. Stylised swirls of wind adorn the scene, creating the impression of blurred, insistent motion. _

"_Glad you're so taken with our interior design. I always found it rather dull," mutters Mai. She stretches, languid and calculating across the back of the chair, never lifting her eyes from the Ambassador's face. _

"_It is a pity you have no appreciation for the Egyptian aesthetic," says Ishizu, lightly. "I would imagine you would find it a suitable retreat from the bustle and intrigue of the court. Far more accepting, our society. Permissive – some might say." She turns now to look through the window, face visible in profile, and delineated sharply by the midday sun. "There is little of which we are ashamed, by comparison to England. Why, even I have occasionally..." - and here, she allows the words to trail off – point adequately embellished, and then some. _

_Mai's eyes become viperous slits for all of one moment, before she reigns in the glare, and succumbs once more to the veneer of self control. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she hisses. _

"_I am sure you do not," nods Ishizu, with an excruciating earnestness. She turns back, and the light dispels. "Come. I must not keep the High Priestess waiting, or she will undoubtedly scold." Hint of a smile; one that is not reciprocated. She gives a brief, glancing dip of a curtsey, before ducking out of the room. _

Foolish then, to flaunt a newly acquired young female companion – to no discernable design or end – before the entire host of Kemetic visitors. Neither Anzu, nor Yugi was to know. In no way does this decrease the urge to strangle one, or both of them.

In a sudden fit of frustration, Mai aims a direct, powerful fist at the nearest wall. It deflects forcefully, leaving a barely noticeable scuff on the immaculate paper. "_Damn _it!"

_Ow. Not wise. Not wise at all. _

Massaging her knuckles, she darts away in search of her wayward pupils.

**xXx**

Yugi leaves as soon as he can, evading all who might detain him with a steadfast, uncompromising forward march – made all the easier for the fact that, short as he is, it is easy to avoid eye contact with the Kemetic diplomats. Vague notions of etiquette skirt the edges of his mind – _ought he to address them? Thank them? Bid them good afternoon? – _but he dismisses them unceremoniously. He has more important considerations.

He finds her in the library, of course. It is becoming something of a favourite haunt of hers. She is curled up in a chair, closeted away in the dark recesses of a musty corner, with a cushion clutched defensively to her chest and a book propped up to shield her eyes. She slides further down behind the makeshift barrier at his approach, so that only the dark edges of her eyebrows are visible – and the tips of her ears, flushed crimson with shame.

Yugi pauses, weighing his words before he begins. He is not entirely sure _how _to begin, but he makes a decent attempt at it anyway. "... It wouldn't do to suggest that in front of the Kemetic visitors. I agree – I want the Prussians to choose, too – but it looked like we were trying to take away their territory by stealth. Thank you," he adds, confusedly – and, actually, he is not entirely sure whether he ended or began with the thanks, or both, but, either way, the garbled point is made.

"I know," says Anzu, allowing the book to lower. Her cheeks glisten, damply. "I'm sorry. You're welcome. Sorry."

"You should talk to Mai," he ventures.

"I should," she says, hesitantly. Then, suddenly adamant, she follows it up with: "I _won't." _

Yugi has not the slightest idea what to say, after that.

**xXx**

A wisp of a breeze colours the dawn air and a few airships – half lost in the pink clouds of sunrise –drift sleepily across London's skies. Kaiba strides through the streets as though they amount to any other of his possessions: to be utilised and then, once drained of all virtue, discarded. Other than the odd beggar, reluctantly huddled in a darkened doorway, he sees few fellow walkers. Those that do pass him seem absorbed in their own affairs – hardly troubled by insomnia, nor riddled with the partially realised desire to capture the blue ghost lights of their blurred dreams.

No, he must be the only one with the dubious honour of bearing those burdens, and more besides. Between the situation with Pegasus, and Kaiba Corporation's less publically visible scientific experiments, sleep loss is not so much a threat as inevitability. It is the single constant in a life relentlessly renewed.

He barely notices the familiar face as it drifts past, but as soon as he does recognise it, his oversight is painfully obvious. Sharp violet eyes, assertive and powerful. Hair tucked beneath a hat, angled perfectly so as to conceal any characteristic streaks of purple – or, indeed, blond or black. An instantaneous assault of _déjà vu. _

There can be no mistake – and yet, to admit it would be tantamount to suggesting that the prior monarch could be in two places simultaneously, which is obviously not the case. The only viable alternative is that King Atem has deserted Egypt in favour of returning to Albion, which would be both foolhardy and, more importantly, common knowledge. On the contrary, Kaiba has heard virtually nothing in the news regarding the once-monarch.

Kaiba's mind reels, attempting hopelessly to unravel the strange contradiction that is his King's presence in London. He cannot be here. He should be a thousand miles away. Kaiba has even heard that the King swore a vow never to return to England and - as melodramatically as London's least reputable papers portrayed the incident - considering Atem's temperament, it is not unlikely to be the truth. _Likely _to be the truth, that is to say. _For the love of Sophia, save me from my tangled mind. _

Wrenching his gaze with some difficulty towards the King – or the stranger, for it must be a stranger – Kaiba stares. Subtly, of course, so that were the man to turn, he could avert his eyes in an instant. Which would be rather a relief. Something about the impossible situation repels him. _Everything _about the impossible situation repels him. After all, Kaiba has just wandered past exiled royalty on London's streets. Somewhere, there is a line between what constitutes an unusual occurrence and what amounts to insanity, and he feels that he has most decidedly crossed it.

Yet the face is unmistakable. Something in the set of the jaw, perhaps.

The King is hurriedly walking in the opposite direction, apparently eager to put distance between himself and one who might recognise him. A lesser man might flee, but Kaiba finds that the supernatural (or perhaps his own madness, but he is less willing to consider that possibility) is fast becoming a fact of his existence. Swiftly calculating his next turn, he takes a sharp left. He will be able to watch Atem's doppelganger easily if the disgraced King is predictable, and turns back up Wilton Crescent. Belgrave Square, not a street away, is a prime space for dirigible parking, and the hydrogen-filled envelopes will make excellent cover for observation of the King.

Odd, that he now chases shadows at dawn as well as midnight. Kaiba walks quickly. He will not lose again. He must catch the King. There is still a chance that a rational explanation underlies the entire situation and he must hear it from Atem himself, whether the he be a ghost, apparition or – impossibly – a living human.

Settling himself behind the wicker basket of a small balloon (Kaiba sneers at the model – at least a decade old – an airborne taxicab, most likely), he waits.

Five minutes later, having checked his pocket watch several times, he allows himself to stand, slightly shaken, but resolute. The King – for it _was_ the King, and that is the only fact of which he is certain – has disappeared. So be it. However, the fact remains that Atem is in London. The very root of his anxieties is – so to speak – ineradicable, for the present. And, furthermore, impossible to investigate. Thinking rationally, Kaiba knows there is no need to become entangled in whatever fantastic plot is being enacted, lest it become too difficult for him to extricate himself at a later date. However, he cannot forcibly exterminate his curiosity. And if it is possible to use circumstances to his advantage, then he will stop at nothing to do so.

After all, it is only healthy to maintain a certain level of interest in current affairs, be they mundane or supernatural.

As far as the supernatural is concerned, it is nothing with which he is not qualified to deal.

**xXx**

It had all seemed perfectly reasonable, back in the Diabound. Ryou is not an accomplished thief, and has not been studying for very long, and has never pulled off a truly spectacular, or for that matter, mediocre, or for that matter, at all, heist – something Marik and Bakura manage on a regular basis. Hence, stealing tapestries from the Sistine Chapel was hardly something in which he could be productively involved. So Ryou, hours before, had calmly agreed to stay once more upon the Diabound, stewing in his own uselessness.

Of course, as is the nature of minor grievances, Ryou's annoyance has only been compounded over time. What seemed a reasonably sensible decision not a few hours ago is now a major offense, so blatant in its casual dismissal of Ryou's skills that he seriously considers abandoning the ship and taking to Rome's streets, perhaps practising his pick pocketing and simultaneously demonstrating his competence.

In fact, the idea is irresistible. Ryou may even visit the Sistine Chapel himself. Marik was telling him about the frescoes over breakfast (though he neglected to explain what exactly frescoes were), and Ryou will surprise him by finally being able to formulate an intelligent and informed response. Yes. Good plan, that.

Except, wandering down streets awhirl with crowds, ostentatious architecture and the occasional tethered airship, Ryou finds himself at a loss. His short-lived love affair with Rome was both tempestuous and fleeting; he has since grown bored. The city is too open for comfort, and the swirling marble and copper of Rome seems all too self-aware; it exhibits its extensive history, thriving culture and matchless art a tad too knowingly. Some would call it imposing. Ryou half wonders if it is simply showing off. Not that those statues and monuments fail to attract sufficient wealthy tourists to allow someone with a dab hand to net themselves quite a comfortable sum in wallets and loose jewellery. Ryou finds reassurance in his increasingly full pockets.

Briefly, he wonders when he became so desensitized to his new life.

Further exploration leads to an intriguing discovery. Walking south, the streets become narrower: residential. Small, homerun businesses are crammed beneath houses in soft shades of pastel pink and orange, and not a single building is below three stories high. Ryou feels a surge of the old, irrepressible delight once more; it seems the city has more to disclose than he first imagined. It is as though each slightly slumping doorframe, compressed by the floors above it, is jostling for his recognition. Ryou has found a place beautifully reminiscent, if only in a few respects, to his old home. Marik and Bakura can keep their Sistine Chapel.

(…He only hopes that they are safe, and not on the run from the Italian police.)

As the tawny light of midday filters across streets, Ryou's feet begin to ache. He is unaccustomed to wearing shoes, and setting off to walk in them for several hours without rest was overly ambitious, judging by the blisters that he can feel forming. He is also hungry, and slightly bored: although he has pockets full to the brim with money, he feels disinclined to part with it, ignorant as he is of the relative value of the foreign currency.

Still, boredom inevitably wins out. Passing a small restaurant, all terracotta tiles and whitewashed walls, Ryou hears snatches of a language that he recognises as Albian. A few words are comprehensible. Pausing to listen, it becomes evident to him that the speaker is deeply engrossed in an emphatic argument with another man over… cards.

It seems that having Bakura as a part time language tutor has had an interesting effect on his Albian vocabulary.

"No, no, no… I said… Kings… twenty."

With only every other word audible, and barely a fraction of the remainder within the boundaries of his limited lexicon, Ryou cannot make out the cause of the dispute. He is, however, intrigued. Ryou has often wondered what playing cards with someone other than a shameless, hardened cheater might be like. So, when a man storms past him, fuming so intensely that Ryou almost laughs, he is determined to find the mysterious, card-toting Albian responsible for this.

It takes less than a second.

The man is sat by himself in the corner of the restaurant, examining a glass of deep red wine as though it is a piece of fine artwork. His glossy black hair is tied loosely out of his eyes, and his clothing belies the sort of wealth to which Ryou is becoming accustomed: not what he might expect, in this area of the city. Overall, the image is not of a man trying his hardest to blend in with the local culture, though Ryou supposes that he is, in a way, quite attractive.

"Excuse me," Ryou says, in wavering Albian. Startlingly green eyes dart towards his own, holding his gaze with intensity that makes his breath catch in his throat.

"Yes? What is the matter?" the man inquires, in perfect Kemetic.

"I was wondering what game you were playing." Ryou immediately slips back into his native language, grateful for the man's perceptiveness.

"Nothing interesting," says the stranger offhandedly, downing the rest of his glass. He seems to contemplate the flavour for a moment, before smiling. "Though I wouldn't mind playing piquet with you, seeing as you asked."

"Piquet?" Ryou rolls the new word around. Bakura never mentioned it.

"Indeed. If you sit, I can teach you. Otogi, by the way." Otogi speaks each phrase in such quick succession, that Ryou finds himself opposite him and introducing himself before he can remember to be cautious.

"So, Ryou… You're from Egypt?" Otogi shuffles blindingly quickly, cutting the deck with a series of mesmerising flicks.

"Ah- yes. You could tell?" Ryou is offered the deck. He pulls a ten.

"The accent. Your Albian is terrible." Otogi draws a five, even as Ryou blushes and stammers that he is only just learning. "It seems you are in luck. Care to deal? Twelve cards, each."

As Otogi explains the basics of the game, he says something in – Italian, Ryou presumes – over one shoulder, and within moments, a bottle manifests itself at their table. Ryou has never drunk wine, though he is used to beer, a substance which never seems to find its way aboard the Diabound. He assumes that it would be impolite to turn down a glass from somebody that he has just met.

Three hands in, he wonders if a breach of manners would be justified, especially since he can barely remember where the airship is parked whilst sober, let alone drugged up to his eyeballs with Italian alcohol.

"You're a long way from Egypt, especially for someone travelling on their own," observes his companion. "Point of five, by the way." Otogi deftly intersperses his declarations in piquet with questions about Ryou's life, all the while offering him more alcohol. Ryou is starting to feel slightly suspicious. After all, he is on his second glass already. If Otogi were to cheat now, Ryou's slightly fuzzy understanding of the rules might not prove adequate to challenge him – or even to notice.

With this in mind, Ryou discretely tips the bitter red contents of his glass under the table. This solution will probably only last until someone questions the spreading pool, but Otogi does not seem to notice, absentmindedly pouring a refill.

"Not good," says Ryou, showing his hand.

Otogi sighs. "It isn't necessary to show me." He smiles, conspiratorially. "Though, your hand is worth more than mine. You could have declared it 'good'."

"Oh… Sorry, I only just learnt to read. I sometimes make mistakes about which cards are worth what value." Ryou feels satisfied that he can articulate a clear sentence, having no idea of his own alcohol tolerance. Still, it might be best not to let Otogi know that, if he wants to win. Ryou is not above some modest manipulation himself. It hardly counts as cheating.

"Only just?" Otogi raises one eyebrow. "You are quite well spoken for someone who was recently illiterate."

"That would be my… tutors' influence." No harm in letting some information slip. After all, Otogi is most likely Italian, and the thieves do not plan to stay in Rome much longer. "They were the ones who brought me here."

"Quatorze. I am intrigued. May I know more about your mysterious tutors?"

It is not as though Ryou will get many more chances to boast, so he indulges himself. "They're Kemetic. Or at least, I think they are, and they both speak the language perfectly. They found me on the streets of Alexandria." Carelessly, he picks up his glass, pretending to drink. Time to intensify the act. He only has two hands left to win, and he will delay them for all that he is worth.

"I suppose," Otogi says indulgently, "they were taken with your fine looks and sharp wits."

Ryou scowls at his disbelief. "They were!" He should be more talkative. Marik was talkative whilst drunk. "Or maybe it was a whim." Pause, to stare at the tablecloth for slightly too long. "But mostly because of my sharp wits!" He grins. He has been told that his grin is 'sickeningly innocent', so perhaps it will cause Otogi to pay less attention to his hand. "Good."

"Which quatorze?"

"The ones with the 'A' on them. They're pretty!"

Otogi rolls his eyes. "Aces, then. May I deal?"

"You may," answers Ryou, as solemnly as he can without giggling. Then again, giggling might work in his favour, given he has managed to dispose of his fourth glass. Otogi calls for another bottle.

A fifth hand (and a fifth glass), which Ryou drags out with veiled comments about Bakura and Marik and questions about the scoring system. Otogi is looking mildly annoyed. Ryou is beginning to enjoy himself. He wonders if giving away the name of the ship was a little too much information, but Otogi would never believe his drunken ramblings, and the slight, handsome man, so fond of red wine and card games, would be a laughable threat.

"What did you say your name was, again?"

"Ryou Bakura, of course!" He answers without thinking. Otogi's eyes widen, and it suddenly dawns on Ryou that this may have been a bad idea. He staunchly maintains his smile, hoping that he will be able to slip away easily.

"Ryou," Otogi hazards, "who are your- thieves?"

No point in lying. It seems Ryou has led to their discovery. Bakura will be livid if this costs him the tapestries. Marik will simply be unnervingly calm, which is worse. "Their names are Marik and Bakura."

Otogi smirks for a moment, in a manner eerily reminiscent of the thieves themselves. Ryou wonders what his connection to Marik and Bakura might be, but then dismisses the question. It is entirely possible that Otogi is a rival criminal, or with the Kemetic police, or that he has been wronged in any number of ways – the thieves lead busy lives. All that matters is that he is far too interested in their affairs.

"And where is the _Diabound_ parked? After all, you should be getting back home quite soon…"

"Well," says Ryou, the palest reflection of an idea coalescing in the back of his mind, "I don't really feel like going back."

"Why not?" Otogi asks, voice striving to sound casual.

"No reason!" Ryou answers, far too quickly. He gathers the cards on the table, attempting to send them from one hand to the other. As ever, his fingers do not move fast enough, and the deck stays motionless in his right palm.

"You can tell me," Otogi says sincerely, and Ryou's grip tightens.

"Well…"

"Yes?"

Ryou leans in confidentially, and Otogi matches the action, until they are practically nose to nose. "Bakura…"

"Yes?"

Ryou can detect the slightest edge of impatience. He suppresses a laugh, keeping his expression serious. He allows his hand to sneak across the table, bringing the deck with it.

"…wouldn't want me to lead you to our ship."

Otogi snarls, practically leaping across the table, and Ryou acts on reflex, bending the cards so that they cascade with surprising force into the other man's nose. Each connects with a precise, papery flick.

Without checking to see the result, Ryou is out of his chair in a moment, careful not to skid on the remains of his spilt wine. He sprints out of the restaurant, choosing a direction at random. Any knowledge as to where the Diabound is tethered has long since evaporated. Otogi, apparently, is not so careful of his footing, and Ryou cannot quell his snigger as he hears him swearing, slipping out of control. He rounds a sharp corner, ducking into one of the many narrow passages between streets, desperately hoping that the shadows of early afternoon might conceal him.

No good – harsh footsteps pound in time with the blood in Ryou's temples.

The houses streak past, and his blistered feet protest against him, sharp pain skewing each step. He must slow down soon, but Otogi is hard on his heels. Once, Ryou might have yelled for help out of the meagre, wasted hope that somebody might answer, but even that has ceased to be an option. Who would help a thief? Perhaps, if he slows down and allows himself to be caught, Otogi will keep Ryou alive in an attempt to make him spill more information about his companions. Ryou could protest his innocence; he could say that he had been making up stories based on what the newspapers had been saying.

Suddenly, the sound of footfalls multiplies.

"_Damned demon child never stays where we put him."_

Ryou has never been happier to hear Marik complaining, however distant the sound. Somewhere, not a street away, his companions must be searching for him. He thanks whichever gods might listen to the prayers of a criminal, before stumbling down the alleyway to his right.

As he had hoped, two highly indignant thieves meet him halfway.

"What the devil were you playing at?" Bakura growls. And then, as an afterthought: "We have the tapestries."

"That's… nice…" Ryou pants in response, wondering if anything in the world can distract Bakura from gloating. He is shoved aside, and notes with some alarm that both thieves are drawing guns in anticipation of his pursuer's arrival.

Otogi rounds the corner sharply, grinding to a halt as he sees the weapons trained on his chest. He is barely out of breath, surveying his opponents warily. Ryou's stomach churns as he notices that Otogi is also armed, with a sleek pistol – though surely he can do nothing against two people?

"The greatest thieves in Kemet, I presume?" he asks, one eyebrow quirked.

"At your service," replies Bakura, obviously relishing the recognition.

"What do you want with our demon?" Marik cuts in coolly.

"Your _demon_?" Otogi inclines his head. "I suppose you mean your charge. He is something of a liability, no?"

Whilst Marik is looking increasingly trigger-happy, the comment produces a mocking peal of laughter from Bakura. "He keeps us on our toes. Though I do trust him not to lead people like _you_ to _us_, something he may wish to consider on the way back to the ship." He shoots Ryou a pointed glance, before returning to address Otogi. "Speaking of - who are you?"

"Me?" Otogi looks appalled at the very suggestion of identifying himself. "Whilst your reputation precedes you, I am known only to a select few. I prefer it that way."

"If you don't spit it out," Marik suggests calmly, "your reputation will be the least of your worries. It will be _preceded_ by your untimely death."

"Fine, I give in," Otogi shrugs, but the gun remains steady in his hand. Ryou wonders, if he pulled the trigger, which of the thieves it would be aimed at. He can only think that it must be a bluff. "I am Ryuuji Otogi, the most accomplished bounty hunter in Albion."

Bakura cocks his head, fascinated by this new puzzle. "I've never heard of you."

"As I said, I am something of an enigma."

"An enigma in an increasingly precarious situation," Marik retorts, and if anything, he looks even calmer. The effect is somewhat unnerving. "I assume you notice that there are two of us. Even if you were the first to shoot, you would only be able hit one."

"Ah," chides Otogi, "but I am not aiming at either of you."

Ryou feels slightly exposed, and wishes that he had had the foresight to take a step backwards, behind the protective wall formed by the thieves. At least he now knows that his companions do not want him dead, judging by their twin murderous expressions. Or perhaps they are simply furious at being outsmarted.

"You see," continues Otogi, "whilst I assumed that you would view each other as expendable – or at the very least able to take care of yourselves in combat – it is fairly obvious that you would rather allow me to escape than risk Ryou Bakura dead. The surname was a bit of a giveaway, if I must confess."

"In that case, I suppose we shall have to call it a draw," Bakura replies nonchalantly – though beneath the bravado, he is gritting his teeth.

Otogi takes his time to answer, allowing his smirk to widen, catlike. "Fair enough," he says eventually. "It goes without saying that I will not rest until I have hunted you down successfully." He glances at Ryou. "Before I go: thank you for the game… and you owe me for the wine."

As slightly addled reflexes cause Ryou to spout something horribly akin to '_you're welcome'_, Otogi slowly backs away, gun still raised. The thieves wait, bristling, for a few moments after he has seemingly left.

Then they round on Ryou.

"Where were you?"

"Why did you not stay on the ship?"

"Why were you drinking _wine_ with him?"

Ryou does his best to answer the barrage of questions. "I don't _know_," he moans. "I told him who I was because I thought that it wouldn't matter. I thought he was a tourist!" Pausing, he frowns. "And I wasn't drinking the wine. I'm not a complete idiot."

Bakura glares at him until it becomes apparent that he will not flinch. A fraction later, he relents with an anticlimactic _tch _noise.

Marik, expression indifferent, simply turns to begin the journey back to the Diabound. "It can't be helped. You have acquired us a nemesis."

"Sorry," says Ryou, helplessly, though he cannot shake the feeling that the situation is not entirely his own fault. The word feels hollow.

They walk back to the ship in silence. Were it not the only indication of their forgiveness that the thieves were likely to offer, Ryou would find their inability to walk more than a foot away from him slightly patronising. As it is, he ignores their protectiveness, instead finding himself dwelling on Otogi's words.

_Do Marik and Bakura really view each other as expendable? What does that make me..?_

The thieves must have been travelling together some time before they found Ryou – they are altogether too familiar with each other's quirks – yet he wonders if he is the only refugee to grace the ship for any considerable length of time, and, if so, what marked him in particular as exceptional.

He resolves not to think about it overmuch. Soon, he may be able to piece together an image of the thieves' past and, as such, their motivations from occasional hints in their conversation, and the odd dash of cryptic pregnancy to otherwise innocuous replies. And, if inference based on obscure asides leaves him wholly unsatisfied – well, so be it.

**xXx**

It takes Mai hours of searching before she manages to locate the little-girl-lost in the resoundingly empty Palace. Not entirely empty, in all fairness. But hollow, certainly. Sparsely populated – definitely.

And she finds Anzu, oddly enough, in the hollowest of all its spaces: the ornate, empty ballroom. Mai enters from the balcony above. Silently, she observes Anzu dance to an inaudible melody. The light _tap-tap-tap _of her slipper-clad toes echo across the vast hall with delicate, precise little clatters.

It is approaching evening; outside, the shadows congregate and crowd, whilst kept at bay by soft, gas lamplights along the halls – illumination curbed at the edges by encroaching darkness. Ghostly, almost, were not one used to the fact.

Anzu teeters and twirls like a leaping spider, or a fluttering moth: soaring and falling with precarious grace. There is an odd amalgamation of ease and effort in her movements: sharp breath and impossible twists twine with a dearly achieved fluidity, to create something simultaneously weighty and feather-light. She floats; she falls – she even stumbles, at times – but Mai is transfixed regardless. She has always seen ballet from a box at the theatre, with that insubstantial shield separating performance from audience; here, there is no such barrier. And yet, she observes from a distance: an unseen intruder to the arcane world of illusion and art. This lithe little figure is like some guarding sprite, or guiding will-o-wisp.

It is all quite... unexpected.

She spins in a wave of _fouttes en tournant_, skirts flaring – oddly resplendent in her worn, off-pink leotard – at dizzying length, until finally coming to rest. In a perfect, almost choreographed moment, she tilts up her chin in a confident finishing pose, and their eyes meet over the balcony. Both pairs widen, and hold. Searching – and so very still.

She seems to crumple, relaxing back into her customary stance. From the floor, she calls: "I didn't ask for spectators." Her voice echoes across the chamber: countless iterations serving to underline the very calm and lack of accusation to the statement.

Mai judges it safe to act.

She descends the stairs, hand trailing delicately over the banister as befits a queen. "So dance like no-one's watching," she quips, wryly.

Anzu shakes her head as Mai approaches. "That's a different sort of dancing," she says. "An artist should be aware of her audience. Otherwise it's all too... self-contained."

Now Mai is close enough to brush a strand of hair behind Anzu's ear, from where it has escaped her haphazard bun. "And all the more beautiful for it."

Burning eyes scald with their very intensity – quizzical and somehow steeled. But the response is warm and bantering. "Even considering the spots?"

Mai gives a breath of laughter. Withdraws her hand, and allows the moment to recede. "They don't even enter the equation," she assures her.

Anzu moves away to stretch, falling to the floor into the splits. She resembles a broken insect, with splayed legs and torn wings. Mai glances away.

"I don't forgive you, you know," says Anzu, from the floor. Light. Matter-of-fact, even. "It was all very cruel."

Wounded pride, Mai assumes. It hurts all the same. "Am I never to be purged of my sins?" she inquires, humorously. "Numerous though they may be, I'm not the devil incarnate."

"Repentance comes first," Anzu reprimands. "It doesn't just _happen."_

"Royals don't repent."

"Everybody else does."

Mai turns to face the girl once more, as she springs back to her feet. "Blatant lies. Remorse is rare as skilled diplomacy – and markedly less valuable. Same goes for monarchs and mere mortals alike."

Anzu shrugs, elegantly. Swiftly, she plunges into an _arabesque, _effectively cutting off the conversation.

"Darling – " begins Mai, but the sentence stops where it began. She takes a few precautionary steps backwards.

Anzu straightens again, gliding forwards to meet her. "Aren't you going to say sorry?" she demands, quietly.

"Would you like me to?" asks Mai.

Anzu considers. Her expression softens. "No," she admits. Against all probability, they exchange fleeting smiles.

Anzu swivels so that she is facing away from Mai, and steps back so they are only inches apart. "Catch me," she implores, softly, swinging up one leg, balancing _en pointe _and extending both arms – like a flower unfolding into a pose that Mai, for all her familiarity with ballet, cannot seem to recall at present.

Catching hold of Anzu's wrists to lend support, she complies.

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- The ballet trivia is largely based on research. That said, I'm by no means a dancer, so, again, I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies. **

**- Kemet – or, in particular, Egypt – is rather reminiscent of Ancient Greece with regards to their attitudes towards certain issues. Albion is considerably less permissive. Obviously how this applies to Mai is a complete mystery. Obviously. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Anzu tags along to the latest of the diplomatic talks, and finds that she is thoroughly out of her depth. To compound matters, her appearance seems most unpleasing to the King's Regent. Matters are compounded to an even greater degree when she asserts herself on the issue of Prussian self-determination; somewhat ill-advisedly, she goes as far as to suggest a plebiscite in a roomful of imperialists, before storming out of the room with great dignity. Meanwhile, Mai thinks back on the aftermath of the previous meeting: more specifically, a conversation with the Ambassador during which a handful of truly alarming insinuations were made. Frustrated that Anzu's **_**faux pas **_**may have intensified an already precarious situation, she responds logically and punches a wall. On London's streets, Kaiba catches a glimpse of a figure who can only be a ghost: the face of exiled royalty. Ryou and his thieves are plunged into a dangerous encounter with their newly acquired rival, the greatest bounty hunter in Albion – cue a fraught stalemate, and retreat on both sides. Anzu is reluctant to speak to Mai – but later, when the Regent chances upon her practicing ballet, the two speak, and a fragile, tacit understanding is forged, for the moment. Time to check up on our dastardly outlaws, methinks...! **

**xXx**

After the encounter with their newfound rival, Ryou expected the logical course of action to be to escape back to the _Diabound _and set course for somewhere far away from Italy. If nothing else, the fact remains that they have just stolen priceless artefacts from the Sistine Chapel. Clearly a swift getaway is in order.

But no. No, they are to have dinner first.

Brushing aside all of Ryou's protestations that this plan is highly ill-advised and ruinously self-indulgent, Marik and Bakura wax lyrical about the great Italian culinary tradition, lamenting at great length how tonight is their final opportunity to savour the heady taste of _Buccati all'Amantriciana, _or sample the delectable _Cannolo Siciliano. _Apparently the fact that they are soon to be pursued by the entire Roman police force, and the most accomplished bounty hunter in Albion matters little in comparison to this tragedy. Apparently it would amount to cowardice of the highest possible degree to turn tail and flee at the slightest hint of adversity – at least not on an empty stomach.

"Plus," says Bakura, "they'll hardly be expecting it."

Marik nods, emphatically. "Can't fall into the error of predictability."

Ryou simply wishes they could fly away and be done with the whole affair. For, aside from anything else, amidst the inviting atmosphere of a carefree holiday, there has been a strand of peculiarity to their time in Rome. Nothing particularly dissonant on its own. Merely a small collection of rather odd, rather worrying incidents which accumulate to reveal an altogether rather disconcerting trend.

Oh, he is giving it far too much significance! It is hardly at the forefront of his mind. Just a corner of stray thoughts, all a little darker and a little more mysterious than one would otherwise expect. Chiefly, there is his thieves' insistence that they sleep aboard the _Diabound, _refusing point blank to spend the night on the ground, in the city_. _Were it concerning anyone else, Ryou would attribute it to paranoia – fear, perhaps, of capture and arrest. However, Marik is impetuous, and Bakura is rash; Ryou would not associate caution with either of them. Certainly the idea that either would experience any more fear than necessary is absurd – seeing as vigilance, excessive or otherwise, is a quality they most definitely lack. Furthermore, if one of them _was _frightened, the other would undoubtedly tease him mercilessly about it, and both are uncharacteristically silent on the matter.

No, whatever it is, it cannot be groundless anxiety. It must be justified.

Furthermore, there are times when Marik's expression will dissolve into a seething glare in response to the most innocuous of Bakura's statements. By now, Ryou is more than accustomed to the tone and nature of their ordinary banter. They will tease, snipe and berate each other to no end. And yet, it is like the harmless antagonism of kittens: they always bicker with their claws sheaved. Or, rather, there may be a flicker of claw, or a snatch of bite, but never enough to draw blood or cause legitimate offence. There is always, always a noticeable spark of irony to their interactions – a frisson of understanding, Ryou supposes, or an unspoken contract, by which struggle is both reciprocal and harmless.

In these moments, that spark is conspicuously absent. Oh, it is present on Bakura's side – and Ryou would wager that he sees the jibe as equal to any other - yet Marik views it seriously. Moreover, he takes acute offence; anyone would think it was a breach of trust. Ryou cannot understand it; the remarks are inexplicable and, for him, meaningless. He cannot even recall what was said. But he remembers the look of sheer poison that Marik gave in response.

Far be it from him to comment on the esoteric persiflage that is the foundation of the Marik and Bakura relationship. But there must be some _cause_.

There must be some explanation for the fact that the two, though exuberant as ever, look increasingly harried - eyes shadowed and awash with a marked lassitude denoting lack of sleep.

They are in a cosy _trattoria _on the outskirts of the city, waiting on a coach in the foyer to be properly seated. Ryou and Bakura share a menu; Bakura is attempting – with limited success – to persuade Ryou to order steamed calamari, whilst Ryou demurs, with increasing resolution. All is sanguinity and light repartee, as per usual. Then – something shatters. Bakura's look hardens into apprehension. A glance across the table reveals Marik's face to be a mask of anguish and... pain?

"Change of plan," says Bakura, smoothly, flinging aside the menu to grasp his partner by the shoulders. His nails dig in with enough pressure to be painful, but Marik seems relieved by the intervention. "We dine on board the _Diabound _tonight."

"Wha –"

"_Move, _wretch!" he orders, with forced cheer that borders on hysteria. Ryou bites his lip, alarmed, but complies.

As they exit the restaurant – Bakura half-dragging Marik, who stumbles with every step – the silence is filled, and the tension somehow heightened, by Bakura's forced prattle, concerning cookery, and flying, and everything they pass that might be of minor interest: "Oh, look – what a pretty lamppost!" Ryou winces for the thief's sake with every word, absurdly wishing that there was some way he could facilitate the deceit, and fool himself into believing that everything is ordinary.

When they finally clamber on board the _Diabound, _the panic dissipates. Admittedly, Bakura remains tense, but Marik waves a conciliatory hand, sinking into a nearby armchair and smiling with reassurance. "Sorry for the fuss, demon child," he says (though there is a creeping strain of weariness to his tone.) "Saw someone in there we wanted to avoid. The Countessa Louisa de Figlio, to be precise. Old nobility. Robbed her two and a half times. Second time quite a story." And thus, he launches into a lengthy narrative, most of it improbable, much of it inexplicable, and some of it, Ryou is certain, anatomically impossible. All of it, nonetheless, entertaining – though Bakura's patience seems to waver a third of the way in; it is evident from the way he keeps clawing at the chaise longue.

Eventually, Marik concludes - by this point somewhat incoherently. Ryou is not entirely sure how tortoises came to be an integral aspect of the narrative, but the tangent was admittedly amusing. All the time, he has been exchanging pained looks with Bakura, but the latter has made no concrete attempt to stem the flow of speech. Presumably they are to humour him.

Having finished, Marik stands, abruptly. "'M going to have a bit of a rest before dinner," he announces, vaguely, half collapsing in the direction of the hallway. Bakura promptly leaps to his feet, haphazardly guiding him into their bedroom.

He reappears again, once Marik has presumably been helped into bed. "Apologies, wretch," he mutters, exhaustedly. He makes a motion to sink back onto the chaise longue, but seems to think better of it. "Food," he says, distractedly. "Got to get food. Right. Dinner's going to be makeshift."

Together, they clumsily assemble some approximation of a meal: bread, cheese and – bizarrely – some of the leftover slices of kiwi fruit.

"Is he all right?" says Ryou, eventually, after enduring several minutes (or millennia) of fraught silence.

"Marik will be fine," replies Bakura, shortly, biting into a crust of bread with startling vehemence.

What follows is another inadequate handful of silence, during which cutlery, crockery and cooking all at once become subject to intense scrutiny, in lieu of anything productive to say. Ryou upsets his cup, in order to remind himself of sound. It performs this function faithfully; the raucous clatter cuts through the fuzz of silence like a watersnake through a river, or one of Bakura's knives.

Bakura tilts his head to the side. "You did that deliberately," he observes.

"Yes," says Ryou, for there is little else to say.

The spreading pool of water drizzles slowly from table to floor.

Bakura sighs. "Look, Ryou. Marik is an idiot."

Ryou blinks. This hardly seems an appropriate way to initiate a conversation.

Another sigh. "Marik is an idiot, and he's been trying to hide how using alchemy to heal you drained his energy."

At this, Ryou's head snaps upwards. "It did?"

Bakura shrugs, helplessly. "It isn't... constant. Most of the time, he's perfectly normal. Health-wise, I mean. Most of the time, he's as you've seen him: prancing around like a buffoon, spouting aimless philosophical drivel and yelling at newspapers. But occasionally he has – turns. Of weariness. Alchemy that advanced, you have to pay for. He'll be fine tomorrow, I guarantee. Thing is, he didn't want you to know."

For a moment, Ryou cannot speak. The weight of this new knowledge hangs leaden about his shoulders, and dulls his nerves to the extent that he lacks the power to move. He drops his fork – this time, accidentally.

Bakura reaches across and brushes it out of the way. "I hope this hasn't become a hobby," he comments, wryly. "Dropping things, I mean." It is mark of the extraordinary circumstance in which they find themselves that he deigns to explain the joke.

"N-no," says Ryou, shakily. He seems to have regained autonomy over his limbs and speech. "But – it was my fault! Th-that he healed me, I mean!"

Bakura _snarls – _half frustrated, half feral. "_This _sort of ludicrous folly is exactly why he didn't tell you! Use your brain, wretch. Marik would be far more emotionally damaged if he'd simply let you die. You know what an insufferable moralist he is. _You're _practically irrelevant to the whole situation."

Oddly, Ryou derives no small amount of comfort from these words.

The following morning, Marik is, as predicted, perfectly fine. So perfectly fine it is almost jarring. Ryou finds he cannot reconcile the events of the previous night with the newly invigorated form of his tutor and friend, blithely fantasising aloud about maiming various autocratic politicians and drinking black coffee – pungent, sugar-free and bitterly strong – with renewed gusto. As they finally set course for a place known as 'France', Ryou finds that yesterday's unsettling experiences sink to the back of his mind with more ease than he would ever have thought possible.

**xXx**

Throwing himself down at the head of the breakfast table with all the grace of a child throwing a temper tantrum, Atem broods - all dark thoughts and darker lashes. Ishizu glances from her newspaper to Mana with mild amusement. Mana restrains herself. To giggle would only encourage him.

"Atem," Ishizu begins, playfully twirling half a piece of toast between two fingers, "if you do not cease with the storm cloud impersonations, I am not passing the scrambled eggs."

"She views it as a duty to her country," Mana adds, voice laden with the utmost sincerity.

Atem looks at them balefully, before conceding defeat and straightening. "I had hoped that I would know what to say to him," he moans, obviously not feeling the need to clarify the identity of the object of his confliction.

Mana watches the woebegone King for a moment and then, seeing that his plate is still empty a full minute after he sat down, she takes pity, skewering a generous helping of grilled tomatoes with a spare fork.

The moment he attempts to speak, no doubt to express more sorrow at his own uselessness, she pops it into his mouth.

"Eat," she commands, imperiously. "Then you may talk."

They descend for a while into that fleeting and companionable silence found almost exclusively in the presence of food – most specifically, breakfast.

Ishizu is the first to break it. "Not to dismiss such a pressing matter, but have either of you read today's news?" The blank looks she receives are a more than sufficient response. "No? News has just reached England: the Sistine Chapel has been robbed."

This is enough to startle even Atem. "The Sistine Chapel! What was taken?"

"A series of tapestries by Raphael," replies Ishizu. "There were no witnesses, and the police believe the culprits left by air within a few days of the crime."

Atem frowns. "Could they not have searched parked ships in the area?"

"Rome is thronged with airships – nothing could be easier than escaping through the crowd. The thieves will be gone before the day is out," predicts Ishizu, breezily.

Mana idly picks at her mushrooms, the only remnants of her previously brimming plate. Atem is picking at a bread roll, which is, at the very least, an improvement. The matter seems to have piqued his interest. Mana turns to him, giving a strand of his fringe an affable tug (this elicits an undignified yelp, which she graciously ignores). "And what are your thoughts, Inspector Atem?"

"Do not play with my hair," he says, sternly, and takes a bite of his bread, as if to punctuate the statement. "I suppose the tapestries are a national treasure, or some such?"

"Priceless," intones Mana, pretending not to notice Ishizu's delicately raised eyebrow.

"Well then," pronounces Atem, "it is imperative that they be recovered. Are there any suspects?" He slams his palm to the table in a businesslike fashion. The milk jug teeters.

Ishizu is plainly apathetic to their banter – normally, she would be all for playing along, yet these days, she has been markedly distracted – and, with a long suffering sigh, returns to the article, scouring it for clues. Mana mentally urges her to relinquish her pride and _make something up_. Atem has been miserable since they arrived in England, and she will not let the perilous initial steps to his happiness be jeopardized by the Kemetic ambassador's lack of an imagination, or, indeed, material facts.

"No," says Ishizu, at length. "There are no leads-"

"-however," Mana interjects, "in my humble opinion, uninformed as it may be, I believe that any thieves skilled enough to steal a series of – undoubtedly weighty and inconvenient to carry – tapestries from the finest chapel in Rome…" she pauses for breath. Ishizu looks mildly bewildered. "…are doing so for glory."

"Glory." Atem seems to consider the word, rolling the syllables around his mouth like a new and interesting sweet.

"Indeed," Mana replies, pleased at the response. "Why would any criminal so talented and accomplished need money? This crime was committed for the sake of prestige."

Atem inclines his head. "'Criminal', singular?" He asks, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Mana frowns. "I suspect it was a lone thief," she says, in a tone that broaches little compromise.

"Do you, now." Atem looks like a cat that has spotted a plump sparrow with a limp, after previously experiencing an unexpected encounter with an unguarded pot of cream.

"I do," she says primly.

"And I suppose," Atem continues, tone shamelessly mocking, "that he is dashing and mysterious, yet unreasonably lonely. No doubt he is also misunderstood, and the mere sight of one as beautiful as yourself would place him upon the path of righteousness. He would renounce his life of crime, anonymously replace all his stolen goods and vow to take your hand in holy matrimony." The tale is concluded with a sweeping gesture of the arm, nearly toppling a nearby salt cellar.

Atem stops, looking distinctly smug, so Mana elbows him, scowling. Atem returns the gesture with twice the force, and in a moment, they are locked in a fierce battle, armed with their elbows and the occasional (though by no means gentle) kick at the opponent's shin.

Ishizu watches with some amusement, waiting until they are thoroughly entangled, attempting with little success to stifle their giggles. Having given them their moment of mirth, and not without some reluctance, she steers the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Atem, you must speak to your brother. Postponing the issue will not resolve it."

Suddenly serious, Atem extricates a hand from Mana's grip in order run it through his somewhat dishevelled hair. "I don't know... how to talk to him," he says, weakly. "I have been trying to force myself to approach Yugi, but the very thought of speaking together - what on earth would I say?" Hopelessly, he tails off. Then, rather wryly, he adds: "And what would he think of me, coming all the way to England to see him, and subsequently refusing to do so much as show my face?"

At that, Ishizu chuckles. As, she imagines, would the King: all sunny laughter, ease and charm, as Atem has described him countless times. "No doubt he would be delighted at the very suggestion that you were in the country." She smiles, softly. "If he knew, there would be no keeping the two of you apart – and, moreover, your hesitation would be forgotten in an instant."

"He's your brother," Mana interjects, before Atem – who is looking decidedly ambivalent - can manage a reply. "I'm sure he won't mind if you stutter a little."

Atem looks at his plate, and then quickly up again at Ishizu's sympathetic smile. "You're right," he says finally, expression resolving itself to a look of fierce determination that kindles a nigh involuntary grin on Mana's face. "I will speak to Yugi." He bites his lip. "I have no idea what I will say-"

"-but it will come naturally," finishes Mana, smoothly. "Like everything else you've ever worried about. Just tell him how you feel."

Atem nods. "I will speak to Yugi as soon as I next see him," he vows, as though repetition might equal resolve, and, for a little while, they are silent again.

Mana veritably soaks up these precious moments of contentment. She covets the time spent with her friends in which she has no responsibilities or obligations, yet she knows that their stay in London can scarce afford to be wasted. The peace talks are long, frustrating and – at times – decidedly dull, but nonetheless painfully necessary. The two sides must be forced to reconciliation; they cannot continue locked in this pyrrhic tangle of antagonism. Would that her own duty included a joyful reunion with the boy King!

("And Mana," adds Atem, the air of an afterthought doing nothing to erase the considerable dignity of the statement, "I _never _stutter.")

Well, each to their own part.

**xXx**

In all his years as butler to Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington, Frederick Moloney has yet to experience what most would term a 'normal' afternoon. Amidst unannounced visits by dirt-smeared ruffians, last minute caprices involving visits to certain stately homes and whimsical requests for the most ridiculous, childish and seemingly random items, Moloney has long since come to the conclusion that should he have known the nature and extent of high nobility's eccentricities, he would have retreated as far and swiftly as his immaculately shined boots would carry him and opted for a safer career in perhaps investment banking. True, he is by no means young enough to withstand the remorseless cut and thrust of market forces – as his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper moustache could readily attest were it not concealed by an ingenious blend of viscous ink and darkest boot polish – and yet, whenever confronted by one of _those _looks of Master Pegasus', he is immediately flooded by the insane urge to propel himself into any other vocation, however volatile, rather than face whatever bizarre command with which he is to be assaulted this time round. Doubtless he would have tendered his resignation years ago had he not been certain of acute failure if flung into the turbulent outside world.

For now: "My lord, I have procured the books you requested. Though, if you will permit me to say so, they hardly seem... congruous to your position, age or gender."

My lord has in fact instructed him to find leather-bound editions of a selection of Gothic romances, all at least several decades old if not more, and most – as Moloney judges – filled to the brim with the most lurid sensationalism imaginable. Exactly how his master could ever imagine Lewis' _The Monk _to be appropriate reading material – much less Le Fanu's _Carmilla _– is unfathomable to his butler. At the time, he did indeed attempt to placate him with recommendations of a more suitable variety – selected, in fact, from his own collection. Yet somehow Rupert Smileson's _Morality Tales for the God-fearing _and George Upmanton's _Perseverance and Fortitude: A Guide to Steadfast Entrepreneurship_ failed to pique his employer's interest nearly so much as the vampire novels of Stoker or Polidori – a fact which Moloney fervently believes can only be interpreted as a demonstration of the upper class decline into philistinism. Or, at the very least, of the obstinacy of one particular noble.

Thus, he applies the only weapon a servant in his position might justifiably implement without retribution: sardonicism. "Might I suggest sir, for further reading, Anne Radcliffe? Or perhaps I am to look into the penny dreadful genre in the future?"

His employer blinks up at him, all wide-eyed wonder and ruffled lace. He is sprawled supine across a candy-striped sofa; delicate pipe poised in hand, emitting pungent fumes. Directly above him rests a painted depiction of a scene from Shakespeare: Rosalind and Orlando in the Forest of Arden: she clad in becomingly ragged boys' clothing, peering out amidst curling leaves; he unaware of her presence as of yet, carving maladroit verse into the bark of a nearby tree - all offset by vibrantly patterned wallpaper. Positioned in the centre of a marbled coffee table is a magnificent chess set: the board carved from alabaster and the fragile pieces shaped out of blown glass. The white King is notably absent. Adjacent sits a crystal vase of yellow roses, trapping neat little glimmers of light and throwing them out in rainbow coloured streaks across the room. The temperature is stifling and the air fragrant; it appears Pegasus has been lighting scented oil in his new Kemetic incense burners once again. The very perfection of his pose seems suggests that it has been deliberately cultivated, as though he expects to be framed as a portrait or condensed into a colour plate for one of his beloved novels. The tomes in question lie in a bewildered pile at his feet.

He considers the suggestion, face alight with enthusiasm. "See that you do, Moloney!" he says. Contentedly, he begins to peruse the topmost volume, sliding a slender paper knife through the folds of newly printed pages. "Yes, the more I think about it, the better I like your idea." Clearly the prospect of a passive-aggressive war with his butler does not make the agenda today, for he is implementing avoidance tactics, conniving in his placidity. Moloney has experienced such techniques before; oh yes. The show of sincerity to combat sarcasm - his master is a wily one.

They fall silent for a few, non-confrontational moments, during which Moloney stands stiffly in the corner; feet tucked neatly together, brow faintly perspiring, whilst Pegasus thumbs daintily through the pages. It is instances such as these that Moloney can safely say he detests. The awkward, silent ones. Never in his life has he served so bewildering a gentleman. Why does he not simply pontificate at languid length like the rest?

"You know," says Pegasus, idly twirling his fingers about the air, "these stories have an edge of the melancholic about them."

Moloney now rather repents of his previous thought. Silence is far preferable to whimsy. "That, I imagine, sir, is due to the fact that they are horror stories," he says, crisply.

"Indeed," says Pegasus, thoughtfully. "What a dim view they take of life! The protagonists and their dreary satellites - stuffy and rationalistic, the lot of them. You have your doctors, and your clergymen, and your young, aspiring professionals... all tediously packaged with science and Sophian piety. As dear Will Shakespeare would cry: _whip me such honest knaves!"_

Moloney's calm expression stiffens. Cracks at the edges. "You find _that _horrific?" he inquires, in a harassed sort of way.

"But of course!" confirms Pegasus, eyes a-gleam. "Oh, they would reduce the world to pinpoints on a graph, if given the chance. _But _– and herein lies the fascination – they are not the focus of the story. No, they serve as a rather gloomy backdrop, no more. Now!" He snaps his fingers, sharply. "Enter the real focus... the villain. The vampire. The sensual seducer, come to mystify and threaten their precious, perilous order. The vampire is your real aristocrat, haunting the stuffy bourgeois in their muddled rationalism. Like it or not, nobility will always surface, with deadly flair and violent _panache_. One does not escape the divine hierarchy so easily. And thus, the cowed middle classes retire terrified to their beds, fearing the descent into dark and the sleep of reason."

Moloney feels that he has indulged this delirious ranting much further than necessary. He resolves to put Pegasus back in his place with a pertinent argument. "But it is common knowledge – though do not imagine that I have ever gone as far as to read such material – that in the end of these stories, the supernatural forces are defeated. Surely it spells triumph for the protagonists?"

Pegasus laughs melodiously. "True enough. But you must not take these stories so seriously, Moloney!" he chastises, playfully. The butler makes an indignant choking noise. "They are morality tales at heart, invented to assuage the growing fears of the middle classes. Nothing more. A child's trick. A game to scare oneself by night and reassure oneself by day. They are all nonsense. But delightful nonsense nonetheless. And quite informative - would you not say so?"

Moloney looks beseechingly towards the ceiling. It offers no advice on how to keep his patience. "I would not presume to say anything on the matter," he replies, with admirable control – bows once, and retreats.

**xXx**

By the time Ryou manages to catch Marik alone, they have been in the air a few days, and the turmoil of anger, conflict and gratitude that has left him floundering and irritable is beginning to show in conversation. So it is no surprise, when he encounters the thief reading before dinner, that Marik seems to know exactly what Ryou wants to say.

"You wanted to speak to me?" His signature mocking grin is conspicuously absent. Ryou finds himself wondering if the Marik curled on the chaise longue now, hair slightly askew and expression vaguely contemplative, bears any resemblance to the creature behind his glamorous façade of opulence and wit: the real Marik.

"I did," is all Ryou can muster. And then, because the thieves have always managed to distract him from their faults with incredible ease, and he does not want to forget why he is here, he adds: "Why did you hide it from me?"

And now, the ghost of a smile, faint and slightly whimsical. "I knew that you would ask me that eventually."

Ryou is still standing, and he feels hot and uncomfortable next to someone so languid, whose every movement seems to question his resolve and to imply that he is overreacting. "Answer the question," he demands. "I'm not a child, no matter what you call me, so why did you hide it from me?"

Marik frowns, as though he is teaching Ryou a particularly difficult grammatical concept, and Ryou is failing to appreciate it. "Sit," he says. His legs are splayed across the entire seat. At Ryou's sceptical look, Marik rolls his eyes, muttering "_fine_." He tucks his leg underneath himself to make room for two.

As soon as he has settled, Marik replaces his book on the table, allowing his full attention to rest on Ryou's face, causing Ryou to squirm.

"Why do you always assume the worst of people?" inquires Marik. "If I have hidden anything from you, it was to prevent you from worrying." Before Ryou can respond, he leans towards him, resting his chin on his shoulder in a manner strangely reminiscent of the night he and Bakura had decided they were pirates. "And yet, you equate that with treating you as a child. Really, demon, this paranoia is unwarranted." The slight warmth of Marik's breath grazes his neck, both a taunt and a challenge.

It is with a sudden rush of clarity that Ryou shrugs Marik away from him. "Stop mocking me," he says, shortly. "You should have known that I would find out at some point, and that makes me worry more, because now I don't know when you were actually happy and when you were just trying to make yourself look happy, which is really inconsiderate, and-"

"Ryou," says Marik, gravely, "you are rambling." He inspects his nails, apparently uninterested in their argument. "I don't understand why you're so angry, anyway."

"Stop interrupting me! I'm angry because you hid something from me, and it _hurt_." Ryou knows that he is nearly yelling now, and that he probably is overreacting, and that, in all fairness, Marik has a point. This is all inconsequential. "I'm one of you, now. You're supposed to tell me when something bad happens."

He had expected a reaction, but the look Marik gives him is dizzying in its intensity. His eyes are generally unreadable: startlingly sharp, but carefully closed to scrutiny, keeping the thoughts which undoubtedly glow below the surface well and truly shrouded. Now, they are wide and oddly bright, containing none of the anger Ryou had anticipated and even hoped for. Where there would usually be a calculated glint, Ryou can see only vulnerability.

"Sorry," Marik manages, averting his gaze. His voice is slightly strangled.

"No, I am, I didn't mean to shout, I-" Ryou cuts himself off, unable to quite understand why he is apologising, or what he has just witnessed. "I found out," he says, lamely. "Now I know, so it doesn't matter." And, in an odd way, it does not.

"Thank you," responds Marik, voice a little stronger, and he seems to have as clear an idea of why he says it as Ryou does. "Yes," he adds, repeating Ryou's words like a prayer, the flickering smile beginning to return, "you found out, so it doesn't matter anymore."

There is an odd pause, in which neither of them trust themselves to open their mouths, and then Ryou decides that there is no point in wallowing in indecisiveness, and takes the initiative to restart conversation. "What were you reading?" he asks, gently.

"_Les Miserables_," Marik proffers the book, regaining a little of his usual animation, "by Victor Hugo. And once you have learned Albian, you shall read it, too."

Ryou inspects the first page. "I don't recognise any of this," he says, ever the hopeless student.

Marik veritably beams. "That is because, uncultured demon, it is neither in Albian, nor Kemetic."

"So once I have learnt Albian-"

"-I will teach you French."

They both laugh at that, and the rest of the conversation falls into equally mundane territory. Any residual resentment over Marik's dishonesty has evaporated. Ryou is not used to the thieves showing signs of weakness, and now that Marik has, the guilt at having induced it is enough to make him abandon his grievance. Besides, Ryou trusts Marik, in some misguided, unconditional way, and now that he has apologised, Ryou is fine with meandering conversations about the plot of French novels.

"-so then, everyone on the barricade, whom we, as readers, have had described to us in loving detail – not a single ironically doomed hope, nor mildly amusing character flaw overlooked – dies."

Ryou blinks, wondering if, in his absent musings, he has missed something. "Isn't that a bit of an anticlimax?" he ventures, unsure of whether he is about to induce a fit of infuriated, intellectual rage.

Instead, he merely incurs a longsuffering sigh. "No," Marik groans, throwing himself dramatically against Ryou as though there is an invisible audience crowded into the _Diabound's_ cluttered living room, observing his performance. "No, it is not an anticlimax."

"Marik?"

"Hm?"

Ryou thinks that maybe he is a masochist, but he has to say something. Pretending that the former half of their conversation did not exist is a short-lived solution. "Don't hide anything else from me, okay?"

Draping himself about Ryou's shoulders, Marik gives another gusty sigh – one of defeat. "Fine," he says. "I have nothing to hide from you."

"Neither do I," Ryou replies happily, and finds himself feeling strangely cheerful for the rest of the evening.

**xXx**

**Notes:**

**- Heka – sorry, **_**alchemy – **_**has its consequences. Particularly of the healing variety. **

**- Ah, **_**Les Miserables, **_**how I love thee! Believe it or not, it was Al who came up with that reference. **

**- I don't think I've ever had more fun constructing a dime-a-dozen OC than with Moloney. Stuffed to the brim with Victorian sensibilities indeed! **


	14. Chapter 14

_**Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...**_

**The thieves' sojourn in Italy continues, despite Ryou's protestations that it would be far wiser to curtail it. Marik and Bakura insist that dining is much higher on their list of priorities than making a clean getaway. However, at the restaurant, Marik's behaviour takes a turn for the unsettling; he appears to be in acute pain. Bakura drags him back to the Diabound, with Ryou in tow – all the while attempting (and failing) to project the veneer that nothing is amiss. When they reach the ship, Marik's condition appears to improve. After a long, rambling story, he retreats back to bed. After some dancing around the issue, Bakura admits to Ryou that when Marik healed him, there were consequences – his energy was drained, resulting in sporadic 'turns' of weariness. In England, Ishizu, Mana and Atem discuss the theft from the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Atem gently teases Mana about her infatuation with the culprit. In turn, both Ishizu and Mana persuade Atem to talk to Yugi at a later date. **_**Will this ever happen? It is highly doubtful. **_**We cut to Pegasus and his super-orthodox-Victorian-butler-with-aspirations-to-financial-management in time to catch a somewhat whimsical discussion on the nature of the Gothic genre – and also to appreciate Pegasus' interior decorating which is, naturally, immaculate. Incidentally, we also learn a fair bit about his motivations. We then conclude with a conversation between Marik and Ryou, during which Ryou chastises Marik for keeping his alchemy-induced weakness from him. After **_**much**_** dancing about the issue, Marik apologises, and swears that he has nothing further to hide. **

**This should bring us quite nicely onto the next chapter. **

**BUT BEFORE WE BEGIN, AL AND I HAVE AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE!11 **

_**Stars From the Gutter **_**is going to take a two week long holiday from updates, during which time Al and I will be, uh, taking a two week long holiday in California. Let me assure you now that this does **_**not **_**mean we will fail to update regularly in the future; it's just that we will have practically zero internet connection for a while. Regular updates will resume again on Thursday the 11****th**** August. Apologies for the delay! **

**And thus, without further ado, we move along on the timeless wings of narrative to check out events in England... **

**xXx**

Mana clenches her fists ferociously, suppressing, with some effort, the urge to slam them on the table. Here it approaches: the distant reckoning; the silent dread of politicians in Albion and Kemet alike – that irrepressible, impersonal force which none can predict and few can contain. Rebellion. The word, hot and fiery, seems to choke her mind.

That it has come to this! It was quite, quite inevitable that upheaval should occur – yet she, and Mahaado for that matter, had always predicted it would happen in Albion, where the grasp of imperial rule was tighter; suffocating.

Flash of the apocalypse, perchance? The world, she thinks, is shuddering at its foundations – and echoes that resound overseas will soon spill over in seismic waves to one's home shore. She cannot help but characterise this tremor as prophetic; the beginning of the end.

And that their only link with events should be impersonal telegrams! Like peering at an inferno through a crack in the wall – eyes stinging, and powerless.

She wonders abstractedly how Mai Kujaku's Privy Council will be taking all of this.

**xXx**

Yugi huddles in his wide, four-poster bed, backed up against a pillow, blankets clutched hotly about his knees. The curtains are drawn carelessly around him like an ethereal cage, fluttering slightly in response to the breeze from the open window. He is finding it very difficult to remain thinking. And yet, the thoughts continue to assault him regardless, with no respect for his conscious commands. It is the middle of the day, but for once he cannot bring himself to leave his room after being informed by a stony-faced Regent of the current state of affairs in foreign policy. He knows he ought to be facing his duties; conferring with various advisors, assessing possibilities and keeping abreast of the latest information – but weariness and panic crashed over him like a colossal wave and weighed down any resolve he might have conjured. The immensity of his responsibility overwhelmed him – and thus, once again, he passed it on to his mentor, like a figurehead or – a child...

Yesterday, he turned to his friends with imploring eyes and asked them: "Do you really think revolution could ever happen in England? It could never – right?"

And it has not. Night follows day; hours chase each other by the heels; snow melts, recedes and lightens into faint spring showers – and peace continues to embrace the Albion Empire. The situation in Kemet has none of the same tranquillity. A week ago, the peasants in Prussia rose up in revolt against Kemetic rule. There remains little to be done, save wait, lend comfort to the Ambassador and High Priestess, and pray that the mutiny does not spread to Albian borders. It remains to be seen whether the other Germanic states will respond with similar sedition. Yugi shudders, feverishly. _How can I be a King, and yet feel so powerless...? _

There is a soft tap at the door. Barely pausing for invitation or response, it swings open, and in tumbles Jonouchi. "Yugi!"

"H-hello."

Jonouchi bounds hastily across the room. Swiftly, he yanks the curtains aside to see Yugi's face: light spills across a weak smile; almost battered looking. "Sophia..." he murmurs, helplessly. "Don't look like that. This doesn't affect us, remember? Things in Prussia won't change anything in Albion. We can't do anything except stay well out of it."

Yugi shakes his head. "You're right," he says, somewhat contradictorily. "But you're also wrong! If Kemet becomes unstable, it could endanger the diplomatic talks. And if rebellion spreads to Albion..."

"Stuff's not as explosive as all that," Jonouchi assures him. "It's insurrection, not dominoes."

Yugi sits up with sudden force, flinging the covers away. "No, that's true," he says, with a touch of confidence. "I should be out there nonetheless. Doing... whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing at the moment."

"Lady Mai will deal," Jonouchi reassures him.

"Mai can't always do that! When I'm eighteen, I'll have to make decisions on my own – and that's not far off! Only a few months," says Yugi, wonderingly. _Has it really been so long since Atem – left...? _

Jonouchi shrugs, haphazardly. "Like I said – there's nothing you can do. We've just got to wait for the next telegram, is all. And they're already sending in airships to evacuate Albian citizens before the fighting gets too intense."

Yugi is on his feet now, drawn up to his full height, and determined. "That's something for which _I_ ought to have given the order."

Jonouchi's face yields to an odd expression: somewhere at the midpoint between scepticism and pity. It is a combination which, in truth, irritates Yugi to no end, for he has seen it mirrored on many others'. "Does it really matter so long as it gets done?" Jonouchi asks, quietly .

Yugi shakes his head in an effort to clear it; to dispel some of this hopelessness. Today has been drenched in an obfuscating mist – and, indeed, so have all other days since he acceded the throne – but today it has been denser and more foreboding than ever before. But now, this instant – the fog lifts. His purpose – shadowy and blurred – resolves. Clarifies.

"Take me to the Kemetic consul," he says, with sudden resolution, "and we will discuss the impact of Prussian insurgency on the peace settlement."

**xXx**

"Well, I don't know what you're all looking so miserable about," mutters Mai to herself, as she departs from a room of flustered advisors. Oh, but she understands well enough, in truth. Imperial stability is today's byword – and _if in Prussia, why not in Albion? _the oft-quoted truism. That unfortunate little upstart state has unlocked fears that were hitherto safely boxed in unchallenged prestige – yet prevalent in the subconscious of every conqueror. One challenge surfaces, and mass panic rears its head out of the depths of political repose in response. Like a shark writhing in horror at the sight of rebellious plankton, she reflects, sardonically.

Mai knows better. This situation presents much more of an opportunity than it does a threat. Prussia is conveniently locked in: an island of Kemetic influence amidst a sea of Albian territory. Hence why she is now conferring with her foreign advisor on the matter: a stalwart, stout sort of man; ruthless in a manner that belies his somewhat fleshy looks – and, as such, possibly the only person besides herself who has not dissolved into a flurry of panic at the thought of a handful of peasants taking up their broken pitchforks.

"Quite right, Your Highness..."

"Indeed... and whilst we're on the subject of broken pitchforks – I believe they could do with a little aid, equipment-wise, would you not agree?"

Mai can scarcely believe that they appear to be the only two people in all of England who have managed to deduce that a successful revolt in a Kemetic state might bring about considerable gain. No matter, for the ignorant shall nonetheless reap their reward along with the more perspicacious; and is this not continually the case besides?

"Nothing too rash, mind," she warns. "Just see if we can get some weapons past the borders, is all. Least we can do is arm them, to my mind. Needless to say, discreetly."

"I understand, Milady," he assures her. "It will be done."

They depart with the air of conspirators. Mai chuckles to herself.

**xXx**

The haughty Egyptian princess saunters across the stage, smirk partially hidden behind the trailing strands of beads adorning her headdress. Behind her, passive guards stand masked and emotionless; before her, face clouded in grief, a slave – the captive daughter of the king of Abyssinia. Radames observes them both from stage right, near angelic in armour that gleams brilliantly under the harsh lighting - resolute to his purpose, yet moved by Aida's resilience and beauty.

Over the course of his stay in London, Atem has acknowledged the existence of many things that, during his time in Egypt, he had blotted from his mind. The climate, for example: Mana had once inquired as to whether the British preoccupation with the weather was due to its unmitigated bleakness or merely an inexplicable fixation on the inevitable. Atem had said, rather coldly, that it was neither, and had refused to elaborate on the matter. Today, he has been forced to remain indoors due to perpetual rainfall, and he has begrudgingly conceded that Mana was right on both counts.

However, some things remain constant on either side of Europe. Atem is loath to believe that it has escaped his mind that Londoners often see fit to abduct visiting ambassadors by way of anonymously hired coaches – and all in order to deposit them unceremoniously at the Royal Italian Opera for an evening performance of Verdi's _Aida. _

That said, the box that Atem's mysterious, coach-hiring kidnapper has booked for him (under Atem's name, no less – the box office was informed to look out for a slightly confused man with concealed hair), does have a surprisingly complete view of the stage. The production is new, attempting to capitalise on Albion's current obsession with Kemetic culture, no doubt. The stage is lavishly painted in blinding gold; the costumes threaded with intricate sapphire embroidery. A mockery, Atem thinks, of the luxury and beauty of the true Egypt – though he cannot help but admire the cast. Stolz's performance as the heroine, the eponymous enslaved Abyssinian princess, is flawless, and despite his reservations, by the end of the first act, Atem has found himself hopelessly engaged in the plot. He wonders vaguely if ancient Egypt and Abyssinia's fictional war is supposed to be evocative of the tension between Albion and Kemet, but is far more interested in Aida's own plight. She must choose between her love and her devotion to her country. To hope for Radames – commander of Egypt's army – to be the victor of the impending battle would be to wish defeat upon her father and Abyssinia. Atem is only glad that Mana is not here to see him: she would call him a terrible romantic. _Certainly _he is happy that the discreet daubing at the corner of his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief goes wholly unnoticed – that is, by anyone other than his fellow members of the audience, who are much too busy staring at one another's outfits to notice the weeping (yet dignified) man with the voluminous hood, at any rate.

"Enjoying yourself, Your Majesty? Personally, I feel that the mezzo is excellent – such a rich voice! – though I have heard Verdi had his reservations about casting her."

Atem leaps out of his seat to face the intruder. Even had he not recognised his voice, the man stood before him with the conceited smile, casually proffering a glass of red wine, is unmistakable. Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington. At his service, apparently.

Atem collects himself. (Subtly, the handkerchief drops to the floor.) "I was rather fond of the soprano, myself," he grits out, attempting to remain composed. "Her solo at the end of scene one very nearly made me forget why I was here. _Not_ that I was clear as to the purpose beforehand."

"How absentminded of you!" responds Pegasus, the picture of courtesy and tranquillity. Steadfastly ignoring Atem's hostility, he takes a seat. "Really, though, you must have a sip – this is Tuscan. It might calm you down. Assuage the paranoia, perhaps." A pleasant smile.

Surveying the crowd spread below them, Atem can see no obvious threat. Which is unsurprising, given that, from box seventy-six, there is an impressive view of the deep crimson stage curtain, and little else. The crowd in the stalls are reduced to immaculately dressed figures the size of dolls, one person near indistinguishable from the next, and the entire balcony is obscured from view. Atem grips the gold rail. The door to the box is shut; it is most likely locked. He has been reduced to a caged rat – and on account of his own stupidity. He should have run as soon as he was dropped at the opera house, and now a mixture of curiosity and hubris has become his downfall.

He shifts awkwardly in the light, before resigning himself to his fate, and sitting. He has come this far, and now he must find out what the Duke wants of him. There is no reason to panic: knowing Pegasus' whims, he may have simply caught wind of Atem's presence in London and decided to reminisce with him about his reign.

Alternatively, Atem has been manoeuvred into the perfect position for blackmail. He knows the Duke of old, and would put very little past him.

"Your Grace," Atem begins tentatively, wondering how best to broach his enquiry, "what is it that was so important as to merit my abduction?"

"Your Majesty," Pegasus rejoins immediately, "I have an offer to make. It concerns your brother."

As if on cue, the curtains part, the overture signally the beginning of act two. Pegasus places a finger to his lips, and, much to Atem's annoyance, focuses his gaze pointedly on the stage. Atem can scarcely register Egypt's victory and Aida's broken heart. He is far too preoccupied.

The same cannot be said of the Duke, who appears most infuriatingly riveted.

It seems an age before they may talk again. As Aida and Radames die in each other's arms, and Amneris, Princess of Egypt, mourns her unrequited love's execution, Atem is torn between wishing that they would all die and be done with it, and paradoxically hoping that the final bars will continue forever. He has no desire to hear Pegasus' views of Yugi, nor of any offers he might make concerning him.

"I assume you have met with the King?" Pegasus asks through the applause, glancing at Atem sideways.

"Not yet." Atem suppresses a shudder. Pegasus is sat to his left, and from this angle, only his false eye is visible, gold and unblinking. If Atem stared at it for long enough, he is sure that he might catch it moving.

"Of course. It must be difficult to arrange an audience with him, when you are… lying low." The statement is pointed, but meaningless. Atem has no idea how Pegasus found him. To the best of his knowledge, he has remained well hidden. Certainly he has not yet made an obvious blunder, or every newspaper in the country would know. Oblivious to his discomfort, Pegasus continues. "To be frank, the King is struggling. His reliance on his Regent may have been acceptable a few years ago, but it is almost his eighteenth birthday."

"I have every faith in Yugi's-"

"Your Majesty," Pegasus interjects smoothly, "I did not wish to offend you. Of course, the King has done the best job possible, under unfavourable circumstances, but Albion needs a strong leader – and he is simply not qualified."

Atem grinds his teeth. "If you are implying, your Grace, that there are others better suited to the title of King, than my own brother-"

Again, he is cut off. "Have you ever considered returning to the throne?"

The golden eye glares at him, and Atem reels. Returning to the throne would be preposterous – absurd. He had left in disgrace, and there is not a person in Albion who would take him back. Excluding, apparently, Maximilien Pegasus. "The circumstances of my deposal would not allow for my return."

"Yes," Pegasus replies thoughtfully, "it was quite the scandal. Our monarch, enlightened, attempting to convert the nation to the church of Kemet. The result was…" He seems to search for a suitably delicate term, with no little amusement.

"-disastrous," finishes Atem, before Pegasus can be granted the pleasure of his own adjectival precision. "I could never return."

Pegasus picks up his empty glass, tilting it to the light so the rainbows refract against his sleeve. "No," he muses, "by attempting to renounce the Church of Sophia, you made an error of judgement. It ended badly. Having spent some time repenting, your return as a suitably experienced, undoubtedly pious King, would be entirely preferable to the alternative."

"The alternative?" Atem asks quietly. He finds that it is difficult to keep his hands steady, and clasps them in his lap. Beneath them, the audience has long since filtered away, and the hall is eerily quiet.

"Power in the hands of Mai Kujaku," affirms Pegasus. "I am sure you would agree that, of all possible results, that would certainly not be among the most desirable."

"No," says Atem, darkly.

"Indeed," he adds, "that woman has tasted far too much power already, for my liking-"

"No," Atem says, a little stronger. He meets Pegasus' gaze, hands shaking in rage. "Yugi is the rightful King, and he will bring about peace. I will make sure of it. He will usher in a new age, in which Albion and Kemet may coexist in harmony, and he will be seen by all as a _great King_." The emphasis he places on those final words is such that they resound throughout the capacious hall.

Pegasus looks startled, as though he had never anticipated Atem displaying anything so crass as loyalty. Slowly, he begins to laugh, bringing his hands together in applause. The sound echoes again, blending with the words, but Atem ignores him. He stands, making his way to the door. The handle gives – it was never locked, merely another bluff. Atem has no time for these petty games.

"How," Pegasus calls mockingly, "do you expect him to establish your paradise? He is a child!"

Atem does not answer. Instead, he steps out, closing the door behind him with a satisfying click. If he hurries, he might be able to call a taxi and find his way home. Being kidnapped is a disorientating experience, it seems.

With Pegasus' laughter still ringing in his ears, he departs.

**xXx**

Ryou dozes in mellow darkness, the haziness of sleep giving way luxuriously to meandering, semi-conscious thought which shall disperse like the morning mist upon waking. He has attuned himself to the _Diabound's _irregular tremors, learning to let them lull as opposed to startle – occasionally even allowing himself to indulge in the illusion of sinking, with each juddering wrench signalling further and further loss of altitude. Plummeting through perpetually bottomless air; forever encased amongst the clouds...

...Marik has commented frequently on his alleged morbidity of mind.

All night they have been flying through a layer of rainclouds, and an all-pervasive spattering, like dozens of glass beads cascading against a tiled floor, is layered onto the usual thick cast of sound. All of this, once so claustrophobic, denotes a form of friendly enclosure. Ryou wonders if the thieves ever feel the same way about the thicket of wind, rain and mechanistic clashes: like a solitary world suspended amidst a mesh of chaos.

One particularly emphatic burst of turbulence causes the teetering stacks of crates that line the room to shudder, violently. The topmost box falls with a resounding crash, spraying twisted metal vessels, shards of glass and loose, handwritten pages across the floor. At this, Ryou shudders awake and snaps upright.

"Mnnh..." he comments, with eloquence. Blinking through the gloom, he takes note of the situation and wearily collapses back against his pillow, with the gradual beginnings of a headache, and a half-formed resolution to clear up the mess at a more hospitable hour. He rolls over, cocooning himself in the blanket.

In doing so, he catches a glimpse of a silhouette, leaning starkly against the doorframe.

Ryou sleeps with an open door, a quirk formed partially out of necessity and partially of habit: in truth, he needs both the capacity to hide alongside the ability to escape in order to feel comfortable. It is not unusual for him to observe snatches of the thieves' late night wanderings. They drift about the ship at will, often at the most absurd of hours, as though compelled to move by currents in a trickling stream of shadows. Scarcely concerned, Ryou squeezes his eyes closed once more – and, sure enough, after a few bleary seconds, when he peers out towards the door again, the figure has vanished. And yet, curiously, the light which habitually streams out from underneath the thieves' closed door has once more been extinguished.

A rush of thunder assaults the ship, followed shortly by a soundless explosion of light. Ryou gives a feeble start – and, an instant later, feels the warm, unexpected pressure of a hand against his cheek. Panicked, he twists about in a tangle of covers, until he is able to face whoever managed to slip through the door.

"M-Marik?" he whispers, but he gets no further, nor is he graced with a reply, for his chin is cupped deftly in one – _familiar – _calloused hand, and he is silenced with a searing kiss.

There is a moment during which he imagines his chest is about to split apart from shock, or from – and this is wholly new, and stifling in a way he cannot quite categorise effectively as claustrophobia or solace – and then Marik _bites, _and Ryou gives a strangled yelp in the back of his throat, wrenching himself away.

Low, appreciative laughter. Ryou's heart judders with as much irregularity as the _Diabound, _and his ears roar an inchoate warning, flooding external sound. Perplexed, he touches a finger to his raw lip, as though assessing the verity of the previous, confounding moment – excluding the possibility of dream or fancy.

Another shock of thunder tears through the pattern of the rain, like a blunt knife dragged through fabric. There is a momentary, almost unregistered tussle in the gloom, and Marik is all of a sudden on top of him, hands at either side of his head, entangled carelessly in his hair and pinning him against the sheets: struggle arrested no sooner than it began. Ryou assesses the situation, somewhat grimly. If hours of pickpocketing training have taught him nothing else, it is that Marik is most assuredly stronger, swifter and smarter than him. Doubtful then that he could ever hope to escape by force, particularly in such close proximity. It is like a bewildering parody of lessons, and wholly unfathomable – yet the reality of the situation demands hasty acknowledgement.

A second burst of light momentarily floods the room, in time for Ryou to perceive a face distorted, like a shattered mirror, as it leers above him, harsh, narrowed and hideously inquisitive: a man who is not, _cannot _be Marik; seems to be a creature of the lightening itself... Ryou shudders, forcefully. It is incomprehensibly grotesque, like some malevolent ghost, or reanimated corpse.

"You aren't..." murmurs Ryou, against uncomfortable weight and warmth. He really is far too close. No doubt remains that he is trapped, not sheltered.

A twisted half-smile, visible through the dark. "In a manner of speaking." The voice is Marik's, and yet it is not – it is more abrasive, yet simultaneously somehow aerial – just as this man is Marik, and yet he is _not. _

And now he swipes a thumb along Ryou's cheek, close breath hot enough to bring a flush to its surface. "I've been unforgivably silly," Marik continues, blithely, pressing insinuatingly closer. Ryou tries to sink back into the covers, _away... _"You can't mentor someone at the same time as protecting them from yourself."

"I - don't need protecting. Why would I need that?" asks Ryou, willing his voice not to waver. At once, fingernails scythe into the sides of his face. More echoing, demonic mirth. The resultant jolt of pain seems to underline the surrealistic quality more than it does the threat; as it is, no blood seems to have been drawn. Ryou is acutely aware that he ought to panic, but strangely unable to respond with anything other than unearthly stoicism. He blinks, once, twice, waiting for the pain and the laughter to ebb away.

"I really couldn't say," replies Marik, darkly, after a while. "Sometimes I simply get... bored." He grazes a sharp fingernail across Ryou's jaw line, insufficient to elicit pain – only a rough tingle, like the scrape of skin against clay. "People make a fuss."

"What do you want from me?" asks Ryou, dazedly.

"Same as the other one," laughs Marik. Ryou can feel his chest hum against his own. "Except opposite. _He _wants to take your inherent worthlessness and sculpt it into something diverting, like a little toy puppet. Me? I tire of toys. I cut the strings. _He _has his chaste little adoration; always was one for idolatry. Ithink purity is the greatest shame."

Ryou makes an indignant noise. "I am _not _a doll."

Marik wrinkles his nose, and gives a frustrated hiss of breath. "You're boring," he sighs. "Too wretched to lower. Not enough pride for an entertaining fall. The Thief – now he has many interesting shortfalls. Perversions. Worth toppling – or tackling. As far as minds go, yours is quite puny. Not worth the effort. I don't ruin his toys; I just borrow them. And yet – some things are too sickeningly pristine to leave undamaged," he says, with a mournful air that is not laden with as much irony as one would suspect.

Ryou follows the brief tract with disgust. He finds that he is sweating. On the one level, he is terrified. Clearly this monster has no intention of leaving him unscathed. Yet beneath the frantic surface, he is entertaining much darker notions. This is no impersonal threat. This is Marik – warped beyond recognition or no. The loss of trust cuts far deeper than the danger. Suspicions of which he was only subconsciously aware have been dredged remorselessly to the surface: Marik does not see him as a human, but an experiment; he is Frankenstein's creation; a personality to be detailed and shaped, rather than admired for any inherent virtue it might possess. Marik was simply living another act; Ryou scarcely more important than a wealthy victim to be robbed – and ten times as foolish.

Ryou _sees _it. The rottenness beneath benign veneer. The shadow self. As this decaying fiend lowers its mouth to ply destructively against his, he murmurs against its lips: "You win people's _trust..." _

The room is awash with light again – not from the outside, but the close, chaotic illumination of a lamp swinging wildly. Ryou feels the weight ease off his chest, as Marik props himself up on one elbow to observe the intruder. "Why, Thief, must you continually cut short anything shaping up to be an interesting conversation?" he drawls.

Bakura advances - and his eyes seem to flash fire. Ryou is almost frightened by the intensity of their glare. He leans across the edge of the bed, catlike, practically nose to nose with Marik, who has crept forth to meet him. "Give. Marik. Back," he hisses through his teeth.

Marik practically chokes with laughter – rough, and grating, and jarringly insincere. "Astonishing how fond you've become of us!" he cackles.

Ryou takes the opportunity to inch out of the way, whilst this creature's attention seems to be wholly captivated by Bakura. The two are fixed upon each others' faces, matching glare for glare with a smouldering heat.

"It's not 'us'," snarls Bakura, vehemently. "You're an anomaly. A cancer. You're an unpleasant offshoot of _him, _but he's got nothing to do with you." They are so close, and yet unflinching.

"Wrong," says the other, with a twisted smile. "Wrong.," he repeats. "Wrong."

In one, phenomenally swift motion, Bakura seizes him furiously by the shoulders. For a tantalising moment, he seems almost feral – ferociously liable to snap, to maim – to rend, tear and destroy. It has a powerful affect upon Marik. Initially, he matches like with like, returning Bakura's look with double the venom – and the struggle seems set to become a match of wolf versus serpent. But a change occurs. Marik's eyes first flash, then dim, as though all his anger has been abruptly sapped away. Like the lightening itself, all malice recedes in an instant – soon to be replaced by a clouded haze of confusion. He seems to visibly diminish: lines sharpen; angles minimise and soften; all irregularity and distortion smoothes. It is unmistakeably Marik – on the surface, that is to say; Ryou feels unfit to judge the state and quality of what lies beneath.

Marik blinks anguished up at Bakura. "Oh Gods," he says – and the words emerge more as a gust of air. "Oh _Gods." _

"Some atheist you are," says Bakura, gruffly. "Oof," he adds, as Marik half-tackles, half-embraces him, burying his head in Bakura's shirtfront, and stifling a sad, tear-blotted smile.

"Every time," says Marik, voice muffled. "Every time, I wonder if I'll ever make it back again..." A muted sob.

A spark of anger flares in Bakura's expression once more. "_Look at me," _he demands. No movement from Marik. "Look at me," he repeats, not so harshly as before, but no less imperative. A moment's pause, and Marik obeys, lifting his head up just below Bakura's chin. "Do you really think you're as weak as all that? Do you honestly believe you could just disappear?" An emphatic shake. "Never. He's not significant enough, and you're not so pitiful as to let him."

Marik sniffs, with an air of trepidation. "How is it that every time you say that, I'm snivelling into your collar?"

"Coincidence," says Bakura, with a rueful smile - which seems to be a tactful, generalised method of admitting that he has no counter-argument.

Marik inclines his head with hesitancy towards Ryou; carrying out the movement seems to terrify him, and Ryou flinches accordingly, as though his gaze holds physical weight. "Gods, Ryou," he breathes. "I am so, so sorry..." On the last word, he chokes; seemingly, it is so insufficient as to be unpalatable.

Ryou cannot speak. He huddles against the sideboard of the bed, unable to respond, or perhaps even blink. He is trapped in the instant, an insect in amber; a victim encased in a glutinous mixture of time and verbal poison.

"_So sorry..." _

Ryou rejoins the scene with a tremulous shudder, which seems to startle the thieves with its violence. He closes his eyes. _One. Two. Open. _"Please leave," he says, and the words seem another facet of the silence itself.

**xXx**

**- ...So yeah. Yes, the magic-weakening-Marik spiel was something of a red herring. This has been foreshadowed for a long time, so kudos to anyone who picked up on it! (LadyBlackwell: this is three-quarters of what I meant when I said one and a half of the statements were right. :D Or... close enough to three quarters, at any rate. Damn fractions.) **

**- **_**Aida**_** was... actually written a year later than this story is set. For the purposes of narrative, let's handwave it and say that due to complex historical changes, Verdi worked a little quicker and finished it in 1870. XD **

**- The reason this chapter is early, by the way, is because there was no way we could post it on Thursday, due to annoying passport-related circumstances. So... yay? Meh. Messed up update schedule is messed up. Hopefully it shall return to normal in time. **

**But for now... ENJOY THE SUSPENSE. *Cackles evilly*. **


	15. Chapter 15

_**Previously on oh my god we are so jet lagged right now... **_

**Shock! Horror! Prussia, a section of the Kemetic Empire literally surrounded by Albian territory is in revolt! Yugi sees this as an opportunity to forge ties with the Kemetic consul. Mai, conversely, sees this as an opportunity to seize territory, and gives the order to send weaponry to the rebels. Meanwhile, across the other end of London, Atem has been sent by a mysterious ticket donor to the theatre to see a production of **_**Aida **_**– essentially, being voluntarily abducted. By – surprise, surprise - Pegasus. Who proceeds to heavily imply that he would be willing to allow Atem to usurp his brother and take control of the throne once more. He reveals the reason for Atem's exile: in his brief spell as King, Atem attempted to turn the national religion from Church of Sophia to Kemetic – and, needless to say, suffered immense opposition and humiliation for his troubles. Atem remains flawlessly faithful to Yugi, and stalks away in something of a huff, much to Pegasus' derision. **

**... However, I'm sure what you all **_**really**_** want to know after two weeks of being kept in the dark is what happened after Yami Marik attempted to molest Ryou in his sleep and was interrupted by an irate Bakura, no? Well, never let it be said that we fanfic writers are not obliging to a fault; it's even an extra-long chapter to make up for the shameful two weeks' delay...**

**xXx**

Ryou squints against the freezing wind, eyes smarting at the cold. The Diabound is below cloud level, so beyond him all that is visible is grey and murky, and he does not dare to poke his head above the rail in order to view the landscape beneath. Huddled in the warmest coat he owns (pitch black and suitably demonic), hands tucked into voluminous sleeves, Ryou wraps his arms around his knees, and tries not to breathe any more than is absolutely necessary.

There are not many places to hide from the thieves – not in their own ship. However, Ryou is expressly forbidden from going out onto the deck whilst the Diabound is in the air, so he can only hope that they will not think to look for him here. He woke up early after a night of dreams that he could barely remember – though the visions of teeth and shadows and laughter lingered all morning. Unable to contemplate the notion of facing Bakura and Marik, he had unlocked his door quietly – thanking providence for the fateful day aboard the ship when he had become so bored as to memorise which floorboards were liable to creak at inopportune moments. Then, he had crept up the stairs leading outside. At first, the sunlight had been blinding, and the wind worse, but he had lodged himself in a corner away from the rumble of the engine, and has since grown relatively accustomed to it all.

He does not know how long he can stay here, but eternity is the most preferable option.

The longer he sits, the more the chill sets in. Perhaps he will become unable to move, frozen into a block of ice, and then no one will ever be able to use him as a _puppet_ again. Now that doubt has crept in, Ryou recognises it is entirely possible that every tiny motion, every thought, each feeling – had been realised under the thieves' subtle influence. The notion might have seemed laughable even a few days ago, but now he remembers with stark clarity every change that has been made to his life. Once, he would never have dreamed of leaving Alexandria; of committing so many minor crimes; of studying arithmetic and the Albian language until his head spun from the volume of the things he had yet to learn.

How can he be sure that his actions are not under Marik's sway, even now? Ryou's time in Egypt – the vast majority of his life – seems vague and distant, and he has only the haziest recollection of how he had thought: of whom he had been.

He thinks of Marik, face contorted, and the sheer revulsion in his voice. Ryou's stomach churns, and he clenches his teeth, swallowing the bile as it rises in his throat. The bitterness makes him wretch, and he convulses, fighting the urge to vomit.

He fails, quite miserably. Forgoing breakfast had been a wise decision. Only bile and saliva spatter lightly on the deck, but Ryou shuffles back from the mess on his hands and knees. His toes are partially numb, and feel as though they might drop off in his boots. Fiercely, he wipes away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes; each one saps the warmth from his skin, nearly freezing on contact with the air, and it stings like precise darts from invisible needles. Not a few seconds later, he is wracked by nausea for a second time, but it is fainter, and he clutches his face in his hands until it fades, quietly forcing himself to keep calm, and not to think of Marik – he will not allow himself the indignity or the pain of crying. When his stomach settles, he tries to find another place to sit, preferably as far from his previous position as is possible. Ryou does not trust himself on his feet – he is far too disorientated – but he needs to stay still and conserve body heat.

It would be so much easier if he could remain below deck, but Ryou will not take the chance. The Diabound was, he tells himself, his home – briefly. And now it is as hostile towards him as anywhere else, and he should not be too surprised by the fact. Nothing wonderful ever lasts for very long, and if something is built on false foundations, it is doubly fleeting. If Marik and Bakura's intentions had been less than noble, Ryou ought to have suspected it from the beginning, but now it is evident that he had become too wrapped up in his own fantasy to realise that.

He will tell them they must land, and leave him at the next town they come across.

They are, after all, _thieves_, Ryou thinks, with no small amount of wryness. And then, in a horrible rush of aching eyes, hot with tears, and chilling breeze pricking forth a hollow reaction, he is sobbing. The icy tracks drip cruelly down his face, all warmth lost on contact with the air. It all seems hideously, unimaginably unfair, but Ryou accepts that he was naïve. And now he will pay the price.

Maybe if, had he been a better student, a sharper mind – had he been more skilled at thievery – if he had only let Marik –

"Ryou?" The voice is nearly lost on the wind, but the footsteps are heavy and purposeful, and Ryou buries his head in his arms rather than face Bakura.

Something dark made of warm, thick fabric lands on top of him, and Ryou claws desperately at it before he manages scrabble out from beneath.

Coatless, Bakura grimaces ruefully. "It's a bit cold, out."

Ryou stares in wide-eyed astonishment. "Why?" he chokes, and the word is difficult to pronounce on cracked lips.

Bakura collapses next to him, sprawling backwards as though the wind is not pummelling him like a mallet. "Well," he says at length, "when one is dying of cold, one has a tendency to be grateful towards people generous enough to give them extra layers. It seems odd, I know – quite an unfounded tradition... and yet, it is the convention."

Between Bakura referring to himself – albeit indirectly – as 'generous', and his apparent lack of malice, Ryou wonders if hypothermia is prelude to auditory deterioration. This thought is quickly eclipsed by the next: if Bakura is attempting to make Ryou forget about the previous night's events, he can stop trying. Ryou thrusts the coat away. "You can take it. I don't want it."

Stubbornly, Bakura sets it back on Ryou's shoulders. "Don't be perverse. This isn't an attempt at a woefully insufficient apology; I'm just trying to prevent you from catching frostbite."

Ryou sniffs. Breathing through his nose is somewhat difficult. "I never asked you to help me," he says, somewhat petulantly.

Tilting his head, Bakura shoots him a sidelong glance. "Even if you didn't, that doesn't make the betrayal sting any less. Assuming that you aren't referring to my giving you the coat, that is."

"I wasn't," he responds, willing his voice not to tremble. "And it doesn't." Then, because it deserves acknowledgement: "Last night, you saved me."

"Hardly," Bakura mutters, looking away. "You were going to be exposed that side of Marik eventually. That we ever thought otherwise was the height of stupidity. I endangered you, it was my incompetency that allowed him to find you, and I intervened far too late to save you entirely." Every word is delivered with a quiet resignation that is gratingly uncharacteristic.

"I don't care."

"What?" Evidently, Bakura had expected far more resistance – for Ryou to demand that he explain the situation, or, at the very least, blame him.

"I don't want to know." Ryou does not break eye contact, endeavouring to convey every ounce of resolve that he can muster. It must work, because, although Bakura does not flinch, he seems unnerved. "It makes me feel sick, thinking about it. I just want you to leave me alone."

At that, Bakura smiles, amiably. "No. You deserve the truth, even if you don't want it. Marik deserves the chance to tell you his past, in his own words."

"I don't want to know," Ryou says again, and wonders who will yield first, even as his eyes begin to prickle. Bakura watches him, impassive, as Ryou cries.

It is abundantly clear that he has lost their argument. Bakura proffers his hand.

"Let's go inside."

With raw eyes, Ryou looks up at Bakura, silhouetted against the clouds. He had once seemed a supernatural being, larger than life – brilliant and aloof. He had been unfathomable, a tangle of razor wit and wry asides to an invisible audience, with an inexpressibly feral edge to his every movement. Now, he simply seems tired. Hopeful, desperate, human – and tired.

And thus, with every defence felled, having thoroughly shattered every illusion they had maintained between them, Ryou speaks. "Marik said that I was worthless. He said that he wanted to change me, and shape me, just to make me into something worthy of his attention. And then he decided that he would rather break me." He says all of this in a rush, allowing the words to escape quickly, lest he choke on them. "What do you think?"

Bakura seems to contemplate the ambiguity of the question for approximately a second, before, his nonchalance returning in full force, he replies. "I think, Ryou Bakura, that it would be rather presumptuous of me to deem you either worthy or unworthy of my attention. Though, given your curious morbidity, charming vagueness and oddly melancholic disposition, I would certainly assume the former."

Ryou takes his hand, feeling brittle and drained and unbearably vulnerable, and Bakura grabs his arm to steady him as they make their way inside.

"The Marik that you saw last night," Bakura says softly, "will use brute force to destroy anyone in his way. But he also knows how to dissect people, how to take their insecurities and twist them into some semblance of the truth, just to see the response it will provoke – and he reserves those tricks for the people he cares about."

The door swings wide, and with a stifled gust of dry air, Ryou is propelled into the warmth.

"I'll hear him out," Ryou replies, knowing that it is the only response expected; the only one that will suffice for this tyrannical helper. Resigning himself, he allows Bakura to lead him to his fate.

**xXx**

Marik lies with his knees tucked uncomfortably against his chest, numbed through lack of movement, no doubt looking as though his limbs have been welded together. The covers are splayed uncaringly over him; his hair half subsumed by the pillow. He has kept to his room for the past two days, emerging only once to bathe – for fastidiousness apparently still trumps shame, a brief shade of normalcy for which he is pathetically grateful – and never for food. Although, as one who would ordinarily rather face the police in full force than miss a meal, he is now feeling the resultant hunger quite keenly. Bakura brought him breakfast, at any rate, but now seems determined to starve him out of submission. Ingenious, that plan.

Bakura has been a mixture of the tenderest sympathy and the most irritating obduracy imaginable – fussing over Marik as though he is a feverish child the one moment, and bluntly ordering him to shake off this weak-spirited fancy at others. Marik is acutely aware that it is due to his own guilt – guilt that he would most likely rather stick pins under his fingernails than voice. Perverse creature that he is. The night of the incident, he half dragged Marik back to bed after Ryou's unnerving dismissal (stony voice and empty eyes; like an alabaster Fury; oh _hell_) trimming the lamp in the corner of the room to ensure it blazed bright. Marik had been trembling rather violently at this point; felt his teeth thunder through his skull.

Hours later, Bakura had murmured almost inaudibly: "That damned _door's _too quiet."

Marik, recognising that this was the closest to an admission of responsibility Bakura was likely to give – and, as such, indicative of genuine distress – replied sleepily: "S'not your fault, you know."

He felt Bakura flinch, heavily. "I know _that," _he hissed, louder. "I'm saying it's the bloody _door. _Pay attention." This decorated with an arrogant toss of the head.

"Uh-huh."

Marik knows Bakura's frustration stems from the fact that he wishes Marik would stop blaming himself for what happened. Good. They both wish that or each other, then.

Now Bakura looms over him, looking distinctly unimpressed. Oh, so he has opted for belligerence today. Good Gods, the man really is a _child. _Marik does not bother to sit up; instead, he regards his partner from the bed, refusing to disentangle himself from the covers – or, indeed, cast off the vaguely haunted air he has allegedly adopted. (_"I thought you'd got rid of _that _look years ago," complained Bakura, eyeing Marik's grimace with profound displeasure.) _

"If you're not here with food, go away," says Marik, sharply. A split second later, he changes his mind. The nourishment he craves is companionship – or, rather it is simply a mortal dread of facing shadows alone. "No – ignore me! Don't go. Please don't go." And, naturally, an instant later, he could bite of his tongue for sounding so unremittingly _contemptible. _"Ignore that too," he mutters, resignedly.

Bakura gazes blandly down at him. "I haven't got food," is his light response.

"Damn it all, Bakura, I'm not leaving this room!"

"Yes, you've made that fairly clear," says Bakura, leaning back against the doorframe. Marik briefly closes his eyes, wincing. That _expression. _Arms folded; scowl surfacing; head stubbornly inclined; he is far too _tired _to face this. "What you haven't explained is why."

Marik grits his teeth. He speaks very slowly, the better to drill the message into his partner's hitherto impenetrable skull. "Least I can do," he hisses, "is _cage –" _and here, the vehemence of his tone seems to surprise him, although it affects not a flinch from Bakura "- the monster."

"You're already caged, idiot. Unless you'd care to fling yourself over the Diabound's railings." Bakura pauses to reflect. "I wouldn't advise it," he adds, as if to clarify.

Marik buries his head back under the blankets, tiring of this argument already. When Bakura is being particularly obstinate, he has a tendency to evoke a kind of lethargy in those around him. It is, Marik is sure, a skill honed over time, with the intention of causing opponents to collapse from fatigue rather than face another minute of verbal onslaught.

"Just talk to him," Bakura murmurs, gentle and coaxing. Evidently, he has abandoned hostility in favour of calm reasoning, and receives a glare for his efforts. Marik may be acting pathetic – that, at least, they agree on – but he will not be patronised. "Odd," adds Bakura, not deigning to notice the look burning a hole in his forehead, "I seem to be making a habit of saying that."

"Just contemplating talking to him-" Marik begins, ready to launch into a fierce counterattack, before the words register in his mind. "What?"

"I thought that might extract a response." Bakura says, smiling in a manner that Marik might – had he been feeling charitable – label mildly amused, or else just condescending. "Whilst you were confining yourself to bed and your own self pity, I was attempting to prevent our wretch from dying of exposure. Again."

Marik stares.

"I succeeded," Bakura adds, as an afterthought. "He would rather like to talk to you."

"Oh," says Marik, eloquently. He seems to have misplaced his coherence.

"Get dressed, and meet us in the living room in ten minutes. I trust that you won't try to hang yourself with the bed sheets in the meantime?" He does not wait for a response. "I thought not. Be punctual." Bakura saunters out, the door slamming behind him, long before Marik regains enough sense to devise a retort.

Marik gives a strangled snarl, fading into something approaching a sigh. Best confront his fate calmly, given its seeming inevitability. He must deal with each problem as it arises. First: clothing. He stretches one limb at a time, revelling in the audible clicks. Then, yawning, he drags himself reluctantly out of bed.

Five minutes later, he settles on the chaise longue, clenching and unclenching his fists just to flex the half numb muscles. In lieu of something to do, he picks up the nearest book. _Our Mutual Friend _– he had only read a few pages before the incident, and Bakura's temporary affliction of kindness had not extended to bringing Marik reading material. Thus, it has sat on the table, undisturbed, for two days. Despite this, Marik finds his eyes slipping across the page, the words failing to register in his mind. He stops himself after half a paragraph, frustrated at the realisation that he cannot remember a sentence of what he has read.

It is almost a relief, when Ryou enters. Self-consciously, he hovers in the doorway, looking apt to bolt at a movement's murmur.

"Hello, demon," says Marik, for want of any better greeting.

In a moment, their eyes meet with an almost painful intensity. Ryou's stare is questioning, unmistakably hurt – but bereft of rage. Any residual apprehension at the prospect of facing him melts like snow in broad sunlight, to be replaced by a gush of relief. Through some twist of insane logic, Bakura has forced Ryou to listen, and for that, Marik is pathetically grateful. Nonetheless, he has only one chance to salvage the situation – to screw it up now would be unthinkable.

"May I sit?" asks Ryou, quietly.

"Do you have a choice?"replies Marik, voice equally stilted, even to his own ears. He stretches out a lopsided grin. "Bakura may lock us in the engine room for a week if we refuse to cooperate."

Without responding, Ryou drags a stool to the opposite side of the table. Odd, that he has always favoured stools, always the barer furniture, but Marik has never thought to ask about it – never even noticed it, until now, when the thought is entirely inappropriate under the circumstances.

"If you want an explanation," Marik says suddenly, words rushing out far too quickly, in order to fill the void of silence, "then I think that I can provide you with one. It might not reveal as much as you would like, and it is certainly not an excuse, however it should give you considerable insight into why – into what happened two days ago."

For what feels like an eternity, Ryou gazes at a point somewhere an inch behind Marik's forehead – in faint hope of discerning the clockwork beneath, one would assume. Marik does not permit himself to shift under the scrutiny.

"I'll listen," Ryou says eventually, "if you promise to be completely honest."

"Completely," Marik assures him. "What's there left to lie about?"

At that, Ryou smiles: an odd, quirky expression that is mostly resignation. "Quite a bit, from what you've said."

Someone snorts, and Marik turns to find that Bakura has materialised, ghostlike, in an armchair near the kitchen doorway. "Don't mind me," he says, raising his hands in mock surrender, "I'm only here to make sure that you tell it right."

"I'll try," rejoins Marik, the words coming a little more easily. Resolving to ignore Bakura, he addresses Ryou once more. "What you make of it is another matter."

"I can't make any judgement until you tell me everything." Ryou inclines his head. The invitation is obvious.

Marik smirks. "Alright then, demon child…

**xXx**

The first thing you should know about me is that my name used to be Marik Ishtar. Ever heard of the Ishtars? Naturally you have; the lowliest beggars in the furthest reaches of the Kemetic Empire could recognise the name of the most illustrious family in Egypt, second only to the Pharaoh himself - and you were by no means lowest. My sister, Ishizu Ishtar is Ambassador to England; the first representative of Kemet to be sent to Albion. My brother, Rishid, is Advisor to the Pharaoh.

So yes. I was once nobility. Understand that it is an unfortunate circumstance for which the rest of my life has been devoted to atoning. That said, for a disturbing amount of time, I was extremely contented. Suffice to say I was an abominably stupid child. Or, in all fairness, an incredibly naive, sheltered one, at the least. Now, admittedly, spending the best part of one's childhood and early adolescence in a setting which aspires dangerously close to palace credentials is not the most conducive to social awareness. Or, indeed, to any form of politics save the horrendously Machiavellian.

I digress.

But it's an important digression. In fact, it is the very foundation of the towering edifice of imprudent recklessness that was to be my life for years to come.

Actually, more important would be what activists of a certain stripe refer to as my 'political awakening'. Or, in laymen's terms, the moment at which it becomes virtually impossible to ignore the rampant injustice and barefaced corruption that this world appears to have happily cultivated. Mine occurred early enough to catch me in the first flush of youthful idealism, and late enough to inspire a heated, all-encompassing guilt with regards to not having experienced enlightenment sooner. In other words, I was sixteen. Doesn't seem so far off to you now, does it? How old are you anyway, Ryou? Seventeen? Oh, stop looking so offended; it was only guesswork.

Ah, eighteen, then.

Well, you will remember sixteen easily enough.

It was 1864, and the world was in a state of flux. England and Egypt had forged a tentative peace, and Kemet was beginning to do that which economists so dearly love to term 'flourishing'; others prefer the less flowery expression 'industrialisation'. Some add the more realistic adjective 'exploitative' – but what of terminology? Again, I digress. I had been born in 1848, the year of revolution - that deep, crimson blot on the timeline; and the subsequent decades were to be most vividly coloured by its memory. You might say I was practically fated to succumb to the most intoxicating ideology the age had to offer. Alternatively, you might argue it was only logical.

The substance of my 'awakening' was contained in the pages of an extraordinary pamphlet. Why the sceptical look? Ah, such contempt for the power of the written word! Pure ideas have their place in politics, you know - particularly to the academic recluse (and all my life I have been reclusive, not out of choice, mind, but by necessity.) The pamphlet in question was chanced upon during a rare outing to the market with my sister, during which – as any adolescent worth their salt – I had managed to slip away and locate with admirable swiftness those elements that the more refined amongst us would term 'unsavoury'. But enough of euphemisms, however entertaining! Your patience wavers. All right. In a half hour ramble amidst shoppers, stallholders, and other spectacles of the riveting mundane, I chanced upon a speaker, thronged by a cluster of restless listeners: some shouting their admiration; others expressing vehement dissent; all noisy enough to drown out any sense of meaning with their combined clamour. For all this, I was intrigued.

Sadly, slight as I was at the time, I could not slip close enough to discern the substance of the speech. I caught a few words; nothing memorable. For a while, I contented myself with bobbing ineffectually up and down at the back in an attempt to catch the speaker's face – but from what I could gather, she was heavily veiled. What I did spot was a crumpled piece of paper, half trodden into the ground, which I managed to rescue from beneath the feet of the spectators. Disappointed, I pocketed the dust-streaked consolation prize. And thus, a ridiculously systematic chain of events was triggered – one moment leading seemingly inexorably to the next, and all pointing in the same, somewhat unfortunate direction. Least I can boast is consistency.

That said, from my misfortune stems... well, largely speaking, everything. Both good and bad. Never understood how it is possible to refine philosophy any further than 'one damn thing after another', though. No such thing as predestination: it's all very definite, in retrospect, but very, very aimless.

Gods, could those ideas be any more redundant?

After that, Ishizu managed to find me, and I was briskly spirited away back home. But I had held onto my paper – and, flimsy as it seems, it was soon to be my lifeline. There are a certain variety of people who only come to realise they are drowning when slapped soundly on the head by a heavy rope.

What I had found was a piece of propaganda issued by the leftist group, Revealing Light. Remember egalitarianism? Yes, of course you do. Revealing Light was – and is – an illegal organisation intent on bringing about world revolution. They have various cells of experienced agitators embedded in virtually every country around the globe. The woman I had glimpsed in the marketplace was, as I was later to learn, none other than the branch chief of the Egypt faction, Dark Necrofear.

No, of course it wasn't her real name. What kind of parents...?

The paper's content was scarcely scintillating. Really, it was a brief overview of the movement's aims, with some hastily outlined arguments and a few cursory statistics. Printing costs money, they would later tell me – and few have the patience to suffer more than a handful of paragraphs besides. (And who was I to argue with that?) Regardless, I was ensnared. Arguments which would be trite to any experienced revolutionist were, for me, astounding in a manner which bordered on the arcane. I had rarely ventured outside my limited social sphere; never experienced the kind of poverty which I now guiltily realised was both commonplace and intense. In that instant, I felt all at once alienated, yet abruptly connected on a deeper level than I had ever reached before. It was as though, up until now, I had only ever scratched the surface of _living. _But, simultaneously, what I now knew lay beneath the humdrum veneer terrified me to no end. It is a duality which must be experienced to be understood. In a moment, I metamorphosised into an ardent revolutionary, yet my very nature seemed to reject the notion; equally, I had forced myself into the role of the world's most stalwart reactionary as I was flung into a colossal maelstrom in which swirled both excitement and fear.

Many young people, when faced with the destruction of all they ever held as true do very little in response. They hug their newfound knowledge to themselves, like a keepsake or token, venturing only to watch the light glint off its surface in the tranquillity of solitude. I was no exception. For a while, I kept the turmoil confined within the borders of myself, almost frightened of my own actions, as though any movement might betray me, might usher in the approaching storm. But it really was like trying to constrain a whirlwind. At times, I tried to convince myself that I was mistaken; life could not feasibly be so bleak for some as the author of the pamphlet suggested; nobody would allow that to happen. Everything I had hitherto experienced seemed to belie the fact.

No use in going back to before, though. It was as though, for my entire life, I had been watching events through a screen of gossamer gauze, so light as to be imperceptible. The veil had been torn remorselessly away now, and I saw life's every detail with a sharp-edged clarity I had never experienced before. It made my eyes ache.

This is somewhat shameful to admit, but I had never given... servants much thought, up until then. Never particularly thought about the Kemetic slave trade, either. Nor the gold adorning every corner of my home; the priceless papyri scrolls in the library; our multiplicity of jewelled heirlooms. What you must understand, Ryou, is that up until then, I had not been under the delusion that everyone enjoyed the same privileges I did, but it had never occurred to me that I ought to mind. I did not make the conscious decision to be selfish; I was far too unaware for that.

Nonetheless, I could no longer plead ignorance. I could no longer justify inaction. And I could no longer tolerate sauntering my way through life, each day no more productive than the last, and all equally leisurely, equally false. I saw now that my mode of existence was upheld by the aching shoulders of a thousand labourers; I had simply never ventured to look below.

It was with eyes cast down, and features thickly cloaked that I made my way to the market the following week. This time, I was unaccompanied – and lacked permission for the outing. In the manner of many a rebellious schoolboy in the past – and almost certainly many to come – I had exited by way of an open window, and made my ponderous journey across the borders of my family's land, lightly disguised. By the time I approached the square from before, my feet were blistered and burning, my brow glossed with sweat, but my thoughts nonetheless resolute.

Luck played a large factor in the ensuing events. The speaker from the last time was absent. However, I approached a stallholder selling grapes who had been opposite the area before and inquired about the organisation that had so captivated me.

He laughed, long and loud. "Be a little more discreet, boy," he warned me, good-naturedly. But I could tell he did not fear me; I was no spy, merely a rather haphazard follower. Again, I was lucky to have stumbled upon a sympathiser. He pointed me in the direction of a tavern named The Serpent; gave me a certain code word to drop to the barman. It was all very hackneyed, really – but nothing more than I, with a head stuffed full of adventure novels and little else that wasn't printed on paper, had expected.

I did as instructed, half expecting to be arrested then and there – or worse, recognised for the imposter I was. My fears were unfounded. I was led to a back room up a rickety flight of stairs; inside, the strains of a boisterous argument were discernable. I nearly baulked then. I was hardly prepared to introduce myself; I simply wished to listen unnoticed, not participate. As it was, I was instantly flung into the fray. As the door swung wide, ten or eleven puzzled eyes swivelled to rest on me. The barman who had pointed me towards the stairs seemed to have melted unobtrusively into the walls; I was completely alone, and felt poised to cry for the futility of it all.

For a few seconds, I braved the inquisitive glare of the room's occupants. Toeing the edge of the doorway, floorboards creaking conspicuously below my shifting feet, I said: "M-my name is Marik. I was sent here by – I don't know who!" At this, I am ashamed to say that I all but collapsed into a stammering wreck. My sympathies will forever be with the poor branch members, suddenly confronted by a bawling adolescent crumpled at the foot of their door.

One of them took pity; a young woman who had, until then, been absorbed in debate, seated at the centre of her companions. She immediately stood, approaching me in tentative sympathy. "Who are you looking for, Marik?" she questioned, softly.

The ease of her tone lent me a measure of composure. I delivered a garbled account of the day's tribulations, speaking reverentially of the transformation their propaganda had evoked in me – though deliberately omitting all details of my background. They listened with patience, prompting me at appropriate intervals until it became clear that I posed no more threat than your average dormouse – indeed, I was a potential recruit.

The speed at which I became entangled with Revealing Light is, in retrospect, surprising. It is, at heart, a terrorist organisation today – and yet, back then, it was startlingly open, as though scarcely perturbed by the illicit nature of its own activities. Back then, they were not so notorious as now – in fact, I had intercepted this unique movement not long since its inception. Kemet, you must remember, was only just industrialising, hence the growing popularity of egalitarian theory, which hitherto had not seemed relevant to a wholly agrarian, underdeveloped society. Hence Revealing Light was yet inexperienced, though determined – not yet the _enfant terrible _of Egyptian politics it was to become.

At any rate, I was welcomed unreservedly. I attended their weekly meetings, observed their debates: wondrous, coruscating dialogues, laden with concepts that both shocked and delighted me with their audacity. An entirely equal society, with all putting in their share of work and all being granted the same, decent quality of life in return. The separation of subsistence from antiquated notions of 'merit'. An end to fruitless competition, in which people are pitted against one another for the sake of profit.

You're very quiet, Ryou. Bakura snickers whenever I explain this – in fact, I rarely manage to get as far as that without him collapsing across the nearest available surface, laughing at my alleged naiveté. But you... you're surprisingly attentive. You're actually _listening, _aren't you? Well, there's strength in naiveté, eh?

Oh, damn it all, demon child, I can't even begin to interpret that expression.

Well, anyway. It wasn't long before I was sneaking away from the Ishtar residence with regularity. I learned the names and histories of our branch members. Most of them used code names, but it hardly mattered. Most of all, I was taken under the wing of the woman from before, Dark Necrofear. She was extraordinary – one of the most intelligent, vivacious people I have ever met. "Dare – and dare again!" was her motto, taken from the French revolutionary Danton, whose memory, convictions and dedication she would occasionally take the opportunity to gleefully abuse. She terrified me, at times, with her courage. Always the first to suggest something spectacular; always beaten down, though – we were a minute faction, somewhat isolated from the rest of the organisation, and coordinating any meaningful campaign bordered on impossible. We stuck to the distribution of propaganda – but mostly we simply talked with the farmers by the riverside, or sometimes the gold miners; neither a particularly militant crowd, though we always encountered some sympathisers.

I found a surrogate family with Revealing Light. They called me Prince, or Princeling – an affectionate pet name derived from the meaning of my actual name: _King_. The irony was not lost on us; though, privately, I was aware it was a double-edged sword. Under Necrofear's tutelage, I was learning the more complex facets of egalitarian theory. And yet, this new understanding felt perilously fragile. At heart, however adamant I was becoming in my ideals, I was still an imposter. Nothing could be done about my noble birth – yet, equally, it was a streak of undeserved fortune for which nothing could allow me to atone. I was well aware of indelible flaws intrinsic to my character, forged through my background. Selfishness. Frivolity. A tendency towards egotism. Woeful lack of understanding.

For all that, I remained cheerful, if not wholly content. And amongst the lessons in politics and rhetoric, I was accumulating certain other skills; ones which were to prove a fault line in my happiness, soon to split wide at a hint of force – but, for the present, exhilarating in the extreme. Namely: alchemy. The Egyptian division of Revealing Light is unique in its philosophy, something of an offshoot from the party orthodoxy. They believe that, through concerted control of alchemic ritual, industry can be maintained with far less difficulty, easing the overall workload. Many members are therefore skilled practitioners. Necrofear was one. She taught me numerous conjuring tricks when I expressed an interest – but above all, she schooled me in the art of healing. (I have honed my powers since, with the help of constant practice. I was able to revive you when you were dying. I would not have been able to then.)

But enough of reminiscing! It's time I got to the point. All right. My downfall - to which I have so coyly and incessantly alluded – occurred some months later, as I approached my seventeenth birthday. Amazingly, no-one in my family suspected a thing. In retrospect, I imagine Ishizu gathered that something had changed – she always was the most perceptive out of the three of us – but she never commented. I suppose she attributed any distance on my part to loneliness, or background melancholy.

Regardless.

Recently, a couple of the branch members, noting my enthusiasm, had begun to tell me about a clandestine project they were conducting. Unlike Necrofear, they were experimental rather than practical alchemists – making a study of its effects on the psyche. At the time, I was absurdly flattered to be their confidante. In reality, I suppose they simply sought a willing guinea pig. I suppose I can't blame them; they asked; I volunteered. Never mind neither they nor I had much idea of the consequences.

Much of alchemy that does not involve healing revolves around using artefacts as a catalyst for power. I'm somewhat fuzzy on the theory, but certain objects have more effective properties than others. Somehow, they had managed to get hold of one that was not simply effective – but catastrophically potent. At the time, I was excited to see their discovery; I did not mention it, but it was similar to a certain object owned by my father, which he referred to as the Millennium Tauk: an ancient golden necklace that had been passed down the family for generations. Of course, the Ishtar family has many such possessions – but this one sprang immediately to mind, as my alchemist friends referred to their own artefact as the Millennium Rod.

Their hypothesis was intoxicatingly simple. Using a form of psychological alchemy, they believed they could separate all that was savage and bestial from that which was good in the human mind, and dispose of the former. It seems idiotic – objectionable, no? Well, of course. But to me, the prospect was indescribably alluring. Imagine: all of those faults of mine which I felt to be indestructible; those relics of my decadent lifestyle – all of those could be amputated, as easily as any physical defect.

I consented to be the subject of their test.

I was not aware of what it would entail.

And as the burning, bladed tip of the artefact bit into the skin of my back, I could scarcely fathom the betrayal. They had not warned me of excruciating pain; of fire searing into me, leaving a deadly, raw tattoo on my tortured skin. They had never mentioned agony so great it would rip at the very edges of my consciousness, assaulting my mind with ghastly, blazing light-made-darkness. My world was hacked in two, tortuously divided into scalding flakes of black and white, as anguish stifled my screams.

You can look, if you'd like. No – don't be scared – it's only my back. See the marks?

No. No, they don't hurt any more.

For a while, though, it was torment.

When I was freed from the restraints they had fastened about my ankles and wrists – the skin around the areas rubbed raw from my violent straining – I was no longer myself. Or, rather, I was doubly myself. I still can't puzzle it. I'm not entirely sure what they did to me. And I never shall know for definite.

Ryou, when I returned to my senses, I had no control over my own body. Instead, I could feel another entity – a separate _consciousness _crowd my mind, subsume my identity. My lips spoke – snide, calculating words – but I had never bid them move.

I don't want to go into many details about what happened next. The specifics aren't relevant to the story. Suffice to say that the alchemists who had operated on me – the ones who now cowered, eyes ablaze with a wild fear that I could not comprehend – I killed them. Please don't ask how. It's not something I like to think about it. Imagine experiencing every horrifying second of the act, complete down to the slick of blood on smooth hands and the rip of stubborn flesh, whilst being utterly unable to stop.

Imagine feeling false, venomous words pour out of your mouth, whilst being powerless to prevent their expression.

And when it was all over – and I sat frail at the foot of a bloodstained surgical table, dented equipment scattered across the room, and two bodies lying torn in a blackened pool – I felt the dark, numbing presence in my consciousness recede. I could think again, unencumbered. I could move.

I cried for a while: great, choked sobs, as though trying to expel the past moments from my body.

The pain, though dulled throughout the time I had been powerless, returned in sickening waves. It was all I could do to drag myself away – aware that discovery would be my undoing. I resolved to run. Using my last vestiges of energy, I summoned enough alchemic power to keep the agony under control – and succeeded for long enough to feel like something approaching human. Before I left, I picked up a weapon as an afterthought: a slender, silver dagger from a nearby shelf.

Somehow, impossibly, I made it back home, staggering through twilit fields with strength born of desperation. All of my ephemeral resolve to leave melted away at the irresistible warmth of familiar sights. I was prepared to wash myself, tend to my burns, curl up somewhere – anywhere – and sleep.

I managed the first two, at least. Without alchemy, I most likely would have fainted from the shock of water on my wounds. As it was, it stung a little, nothing more; my healing skills kept the pain at bay, and even managed to seal a few of the worst gashes. I found myself cursing every circumstance, major or miniscule, that had led me to this conclusion, including my own stupidity. Above all, I could not quell the acrid burst of anger at my social position – the very factor, I felt, in my half-lucid state, which accounted for my ruinous choice. Above all the guilt – that unquenchable torrent of guilt, whose floods I could never hope to stem; from which there was now no question of escape...

A creak at the door snapped me out of my self-loathing reverie. In mute disbelief, I looked up to face my father. His eyes barely had the opportunity to stretch in horror at the blood streaked all over the room before my newly acquired dark side seized control once more.

Again. I don't want to describe it, but you can well imagine what he did. I had even, inadvertently, supplied the weapon: the dagger I had so idiotically appropriated. Gods, even to _remember... _When it was over, I – he - moved across the room, to the chipped mirror in the corner – splashed with a grisly filigree of blood. He peered within. I was confronted by my own, viperous eyes: darkened and seething; expression nothing short of maniacal. He spoke, in one slow, rasping breath: "_This is our retribution_." I watched as the storm in my eyes swirled slower, and subsided.

Once more, I had control of myself – frantically, I scrubbed water over my arms and face, scouring away the blood. I dashed away to secure a change of clothes, steadfastly refusing to turn my gaze to the corner of the room where my father lay, murdered. I shoved all the money I owned into a satchel, along with the few possessions it occurred to me to save. Last of all, I approached the hall cabinet, where our most expensive ornaments were encased. The Millennium Tauk nestled in a velvet cushion, at the centre. On impulse, I took that as well – and hastened to leave before I could be discovered.

And then, after leaving home? I wandered. I travelled as far as I could go by foot and stayed at a cheap boarding house at night. – unable to sleep; just listening to the dissonance of every creak and murmur that surfaced in the dark. In the morning, I bought a newspaper and found a picture of my father regarding me, unblinking, from the front page. Choking back my tears and my disbelief, I learned that Revealing Light had been blamed for his death. It was all so sickeningly logical – it practically seemed pre-ordained. The murder weapon had been embossed with the name of the group. I had unwittingly picked up one of the knives used specifically for political assassinations, whereby it could be easily recognised that Revealing Light had been responsible for the deed, and not any ordinary murderer.

I had implicated the group in this.

Any vague notions I might have entertained of rejoining the organisation dissipated in the glare of this new discovery. At the time, I had simply felt I could not reasonably involve them in this debacle – not when I had, to all intents and purposes, killed two comrades. The rest of them knew nothing about the experiments to which I had been subjected, after all; let be, I reasoned. But now it seemed I had involved them involuntarily, regardless. I was terrified for Necrofear and the others – but utterly constrained by circumstance.

My own disappearance had been noted in the paper too; I was missing, presumed dead; translated and condensed to a few smeared sentences in the leading article. At that moment, wild ideas of turning myself in began to swirl through my head – along with the desperate urge to grasp at something concrete, even guilt. I could save my comrades from danger, and perhaps spare my siblings some measure of pain...

At this moment, I felt a chill seize my body, and my limbs were once again rendered useless. Through a haze of grey, I felt my lips involuntarily form the words: _"Don't be a fool." _I could feel a surge of indignation – far from my own – course through me like a forceful wave. Overwhelmed by a spate of terror, I cowered - all thoughts of incriminating myself dissolved by the horror of that moment.

In terms of sheer practicality, my impact on Revealing Light had been by no means adverse. As the days rushed by, it was with grim irony that I realised the death of a powerful public figure had done the movement no end of good. They were given great publicity by my dark side's actions. Now, the entire nation's gaze was momentarily turned to them – for better or for worse –just as they had always aspired. I was left with the uncomfortable impression that, should I decide to return, I would be welcomed with open arms.

I could never go back.

One thought dictated my actions: find the Millennium Items. I was convinced that, if one relic could harm me, another, if wielded by an expert alchemist, could heal me. The Millennium Tauk had proved to be no better than an ineffectual lump of gold – but if there was an object out there whose power could be harnessed to repair my fragmented mind... I developed something approaching a monomania on the subject. I knew there were a variety of these Items scattered across the globe. All I had to do was find them. Trouble was, I had all but run out of money. This discounting the fact that I had not the slightest idea where to begin locating the remaining Items. I cursed myself for not being the foresight to take the Millennium Rod whilst I had the chance – but in truth, I doubt I could have summoned the resolve to so much as touch it. I had done a reasonably good job of healing my wounds but the scars inevitably remained – stark and indelible: a physical emblem of my folly and failure.

It was in this rather pitiful state that I made my way to Cairo, only to meet a globe-trotting thief who was practically as much of a wreck as myself. But that is most certainly a story for another day. I've been talking for far too long already. I'd very much like to hear the judgement I was promised.

**xXx**

Ryou stares, as if snapped from a trance. A tentative moment passes before he ventures to speak. "Your... dark side," he says. "What _is _he?"

Marik collapses back, frustrated. "I don't _know," _he says, and the words themselves seem to slash at the air. Ryou takes a harsh, anticipatory breath. Sharply, Marik sits up straight, alert once more – and less vehement, coming closer to the cheerful objectivity so characteristic of him. "I can only imagine he is an incarnation of my own savagery. They succeeded in separating the elements in my mind, all right. But he's taken on a personality of his own. As time passes, we've become more and more distinct – he is his own being. At first, he was the representative of my darker thoughts taken to a brutal, amoral extreme. Now... I scarcely recognise him. He takes my thoughts and warps them deliberately. I think once, he imagined he was helping me. Now he's just – spiteful."

The world seems to unwind steadily, as all of the experiences of the past few days collapse gently in on themselves. The rumble of the engine stutters and dims, and the tick of the clock stretches to a series of slow, irregular clicks in time to Ryou's heartbeat. Briefly, he closes his eyes, as though he might contain the weight of his thoughts behind them. Marik is watching him intently. Judging by his scrutiny, he seems to believe that Ryou's every twitch might be indicative of his reaction. Ryou only wishes that were the case, because it would imply that he is capable of understanding his own emotions, when, in actuality, he feels only blank, obfuscating exhaustion. At any rate, he is far too tired of making erroneous judgements not to be cautious of coming to one now.

"Wretch," Bakura prompts, and Ryou glances over, realising with a strangely numb sense of shock that he had forgotten the other thief's presence. Acutely aware that both Marik and Bakura are waiting for his response, he tries to speak, but the words wither on his tongue, unwieldy and misshapen, each clumsy phrase catching awkwardly in his throat.

"I can't-" he manages eventually, cringing at his inability to find the correct words – and to meet Marik's eyes. Though the sentence is clipped short, left unfinished and dangling, Marik's face sets into bitter resignation, cold and aloof. The implications are clear enough.

"That's not what I meant!" Ryou blurts out, desperately searching for some way to reverse the damage, or maybe just to stall for time. Instead – and to his own horror – he finds himself retaliating. "How can you tell me that some part of you is- is a _monster_, and then ask me to accept you back immediately? You lied to me!" He breaks off, realising with sickening, dizzying clarity that he has said too much.

For a moment, Ryou is sure that Marik is about to yell, though he is uncertain whether his fury will be directed at anyone in particular. Then, Marik collects himself, and when he speaks, his voice is neutral, all of the betrayal that was evident in his expression now masked with icy calm. "You do not need to elaborate. Your reasons for wanting to leave are fairly unambiguous. Far be it from me to keep you here."

If his heart had seemed to slow before, it races now, frantic and deafening. "I don't-"

"We can make a detour to drop you in Kemet. Not as you were, obviously – I'm not _that_ vindictive. Besides, you can write well enough. You have all the basic skills you might need."

The words are simple, completely devoid of emotion – but they make his head spin. Despite it all, in the back of his mind, Ryou hopes that – rationally – Marik is only being cruel to lessen the impact of the loss. A final act of kindness, before they part ways.

The thought is so palpably wrong that he can taste it.

If Ryou had expected Bakura to understand, to vouch for him, or even to retain some sympathy, then his hopes were misplaced. Ryou has always known that Bakura was the more dangerous of the thieves – less inclined to mercy; liable to spare or to kill at a whim – but the look that Bakura gives him now is one of pure contempt, filled with so much loathing that Ryou flinches.

Evidently, the thieves want him gone. Two days ago, the very notion of leaving had made Ryou physically sick. Now, in the pit of his stomach, he feels a kind of cold dread at the thought, and it makes him want to retch again. And all, he realises bitterly, because of an outburst that he had regretted the moment it left his lips.

"Please don't make me go," he whispers, and it sounds hoarse and pathetic even to his own ears.

Marik remains unchanged. "I am sure that you will be perfectly happy back in Egypt. Rest assured, your time as a pauper has long since come to a close."

Ryou's eyes widen in horror. "That's not why! I knew what I was getting into when I first agreed to stay with you." He clenches his fists. "I _accepted_ it," he adds, fervently.

"This is hardly to do with our criminality," Marik snorts, and Ryou wonders how anyone so intelligent can be quite so _obtuse_. "If you-"

"That's not what he meant." Marik nearly snarls in irritation at the interruption. Ryou does not dare look at Bakura's face. "Go on, wretch." His voice is dispassionate, betraying nothing. "It seems I may have misjudged you."

"I agreed that I would stay with you, no matter what." And now Ryou allows himself to look up, confident that he has Marik's full attention. "Your transformations scare me," he admits. "-but I said that I wanted to stay. I still do." He hesitates, but presses on. "If you'll have me."

Marik stares at him for a very long time, and Ryou does not permit himself to guess at his thoughts. He will not succumb to false hope.

"I am _not_ a monster," Marik says, stiffly. His anger appears to be dissipating, though he is still tense, as though Ryou might strike at any moment. As though Ryou has the energy to do so.

"I didn't mean it," Ryou replies, swallowing thickly. He manages to twist his mouth into some semblance of a smile. "It would be rather hypocritical of me."

Despite himself, Marik laughs, and the sound is not so much forced as it is uncomfortably close to giving way to something slightly hysterical. "_Then don't say it_."

"If you let me stay here, I never will," Ryou promises, and Marik almost musters a smirk at that.

"How pragmatic of you." he responds. He leans forward very slightly, and Ryou's breath catches, but Marik almost immediately seems to think better of the action, and subtly shifts so that he can rest his chin on his hands, instead. "I believe we have a deal," he says, finally, eyes daring Ryou to challenge him.

Ryou murmurs something that he thinks might be a 'thank you', though he is not entirely sure, as he currently seems incapable of voicing anything beyond a vague, inadequate mumble. It is as though all the words in the world have been said, and all in very little time, leaving none behind for a coherent apology. No matter, for Bakura has gravitated, arms folded, to stand by his shoulder, and Marik's smile is suddenly unquestionably genuine, if somewhat tentative.

Ryou feels a hand on his shoulder, but before he can react to the touch, Marik gives a sudden exhale of breath that is nearly a chuckle, wry and forceful. "We'll hold you to it, demon child."

**Extra Notes:**

**- Gah, I am SO sorry to everyone who sent me a message or review in the past two weeks! Al and I have been in an Internet-less void and only just survived the experience. I'll try to get back to everyone within the next few days if I haven't already – but the chapter deadline was literally **_**the day we got back from a transatlantic flight of eleven hours all toll, with a four hour layover in Chicago, **_**and I've been scrambling semi-consciously all day to do all the requisite proofreading and formatting. Otherwise I'd reply to all messages before posting the next chapter, but yeah. Whew. **

**- (On that note: erosgirl, I tried to send a reply to your message a few hours ago, but it says you've disabled private messages now, so, uh, let me know if you still want me to reply, I guess? :D)**


	16. Chapter 16

**Previously, on **_**The Marik Show... **_

**Shattered by the trauma of the previous night, Ryou takes refuge on the freezing cold, open air deck of the Diabound. He is saved from frostbite and emotional stagnation by Bakura, who has had enough of this nonsense from both his companions. Bakura then visits Marik, who is something of a wreck – and informs him that Ryou is ready to hear his explanation. Marik explains how he used to be a member of the revolutionary group, Revealing Light – yet, owing to recklessness and intense feelings of guilt over his family's wealth, he volunteered to act as guinea pig for an alchemic experiment conducted by a few members of the group. The procedure – conducted via the Millennium Rod - was meant to separate the negative aspects of his nature from the positive, and dispense with the former. Instead, it created a dark alter ego, who proceeded to murder the alchemists, and later Marik's father. Marik fled, resolving to find the remaining Millennium Items and hopefully repair his damaged psyche. Ryou, upon hearing this, is hesitant in his judgement, but the interview ends in fragile amity. **

**Now let's see what Yugi's getting up to in England, after deciding to speak to the Kemetic diplomats... **

**xXx**

With an alarming jolt of melancholy, Yugi realises it has been longer than he ever imagined possible since he has spared Atem more than a cursory, veiled thought. The subject, so illicit in public, seems to have gained a similar taboo in his mind – and yet, he is aware now that every fibre of his being has been silently aching with tacit regret. There is a secret core of loneliness to his every action – of which he remained quite unaware out of necessity. Now, however, he realises he has the right to unencumbered frankness at least in the sanctuary of his own mind. So now he allows himself to think: _help me, big brother. I need some of your strength – and your cleverness – right now. I'm sort of... lost here. I need to lead. I never expected to be asked that. _You _were supposed to do that. I don't know nearly as much as I ought. _

_But you can't, so this is something I need to do._

_And I guess... I guess I need to trust my instincts on this._

_No turning back. Time to be a King for real. _

All things considered, thinks Yugi, this venture was the best idea he has had in a while. Admittedly, he was somewhat perturbed to find that instead of being taken to Ambassador Ishtar and the High Priestess, they were promptly brought to him; currently, they are sitting demurely on an antique sofa in one of the palace's many conference rooms. Yugi had expected to be taken to wherever the Kemetic consul is based – and yet, even thinking this, it occurs to him that he has no idea where that might be. _I ought to know, _he chastises himself, reproachfully.

And yet, ignorance aside, nothing has gone disastrously wrong. There is really nothing that the Ambassador and the High Priestess can do other than wait; their duties lie in England, not Prussia – hence their role is to limit the damage it may do to the treaty. Hence, Yugi reminds himself not to stray from the topic, or veer into the realms of platitude; he must focus – focus and do something beneficial, for once. One cannot continue to dodge duty, child or no.

"I ought to have consulted with Her Highness the Regent far sooner," says Ishizu, with some reproach. "It is vital that the treaty does not falter as a result of this crisis. And yet, she has been distressingly absent all this time."

It is true; Mai has been closeted away with an exclusive circle of advisers – utterly inaccessible. "That's wrong of her," says Yugi, regretfully. He wishes... oh, he wishes he could _repair _things. And yet, here he is, standing at the edge of a gaping rift and contemplating the inevitable fall: nothing different from usual. Two Empires at loggerheads, always. If only things weren't so broken to begin with!

Ishizu gives a thin smile. "It is you who are at fault, also," she chides. "Lady Kujaku is your subordinate, Your Majesty. You must accept the responsibility for the actions of those working for the state – you, after all, _embody _it."

_Mai... my subordinate? _Yugi cannot quite fathom the notion – nor, he is sure, can Ishizu; not really. And yet, he realises, this is a fact to which he must become accustomed once his eighteenth birthday approaches. Odd. He does not feel superior to anyone. Not to this imposing Kemetic politician, certainly. "In which case," he answers, "please accept my apologies for the oversight, Your Excellency." Gah, pomposity! "I mean – uh – I'm sorry," he adds, for the purposes of sounding vaguely human.

Ishizu's smile widens to something warmer. "I understand, Your Majesty," she says, inclining her head with an elegance that puts Yugi's stumbled apology to shame.

And yet – feeling inferior seems fine, at present. He feels... tutored.

They discuss a number of subjects: the impact of the Prussian rebellion on Kemet, for the most part, but also the possible reasons behind the outburst. Ishizu is an exacting speaker, forming arguments with impossible precision – but with clarity from which Yugi feels he can learn. "The revolt was a failure to maintain equilibrium," she states, with assurance. "In order to preserve an Empire, one must compromise – indeed, one must be aware of the grievances around them and respond with alacrity. An imperial power is the guardian of many charges. In a sense, Egypt has failed as a parent towards Prussia." She speaks with curious sincerity – nothing overtly emotional or in any way tinged with regret – simply bald statement of the facts.

Yugi finds himself wishing he could imitate her placid objectivity. "So – Egypt just needs to listen better?" he ventures, tentatively.

Ishizu responds with an imperious shrug. "It does not take a keen ear to pick up on the situation in Prussia," she replies. "It is the strains of industrialisation that induced the peasants to rebel. We in Egypt are undergoing colossal expansion; the Empire lags somewhat behind. Prussia is a primarily agricultural area, in a world where the export of processed goods is far more lucrative than raw materials. No wonder its economy begins to falter – particularly with the effect that free trade has upon its exports. Farmers' wages will have decreased considerably. Now, they are eating away at their own foundations – turning, self-destructively, on the Kemetic government." She sighs. "It is easy to notice all of this in retrospect. At the time, we were blind – perhaps complacent also. But there is a solution to be found if we only bargain."

Snatches of half-remembered lessons in governance flicker through Yugi's mind. Delving into a somewhat scattered mass of knowledge, he emerges with a half-formed solution. "Tariffs!" he says, triumphantly. "You're going to introduce – what do they call it? - imperial preference!"

His face veritably gleams with the delight of discovery and something in Ishizu's expression shifts, as though, for all of a moment, she has been caught off guard. Slanting eyes widen beneath creased dark brows. "That is one route we might follow, y-yes," she breathes. "It isn't up to me."

"Because," Yugi plunges on, regardless, happy to find he possesses the knowledge to elaborate on his theme, "if you put a tax on goods from outside the Empire, people would be more likely to buy from within it – including raw materials from Prussia!" Briefly, he savours the satisfaction of a dilemma correctly resolved. And yet – something is troubling him. It is a similar feeling to playing chess: making a move that appears perfectly safe, whilst instinctively aware that he has forgotten to calculate a vital risk. An instant later, the realisation emerges, and his face falls accordingly. "Oh," he says, deflating. "That's not good for Albion."

Ishizu gives a gentle cough. "It is only one solution," she reminds him, softly.

_Tariffs will make Albian raw materials more expensive, so we won't be able to trade effectively with Kemet. We'll have to put similar tariffs on Kemetic goods to make things equal again. In the end, we'll be completely isolated within two spheres of trade. _

"I just want Egypt and England to get on together," says Yugi, wistfully. "But it looks like we can't even cooperate economically..." Wait, no. Stop it. He is going too far, isn't he? He reminds himself that there are limits to sincerity – limits which he has almost certainly now breached. He sounds like a child. He has to _stop_ that. _Besides – what can they be expected to do? Albion has the superior steam technology at its disposal. We have KaibaCorp; it's why we were quicker to industrialise. We can make cheaper products, so they're automatically more internationally competitive... Kemet _has _to protect itself. _

The thought triggers another realisation. "Technology!" he says. "We'll still be able to trade in technology, right? Kemet doesn't really have much by way of its own steam industry..." Ishizu's eyes have narrowed once more. He thinks of the previous meetings, and KaibaCorp's controversial trade policies, and wonders if he is being tactless. "W-well, anyway," he says – and even to his own ears, the words emerge piercingly brash, "we're still linked that way." Yes, he is certainly being tactless. God, this is difficult.

The two women regard him neutrally.

All of a sudden, the mask of impassivity seems to crack: the High Priestess inches forward, lowering her brilliant eyes with imploring charm. Her hair is adorned with sparkling glass beads, which clatter melodically as she moves. "It's not just that, Your Majesty," she says, in a voice curiously hushed. "We're aligned politically – more than you would believe," she intones, confidingly. Gently, she clasps Yugi's hands, in a fashion almost sisterly. "Egypt and England have been bickering for a while, but it's time to move past all that! Can I be frank? Prussia goes to show what happens if rulers aren't careful. We need to adapt to the times – we can't get left behind. Other nations are already growing. France has always been a sizeable competitor, even if it's surrounded by Kemetic territory. Spain's neutral for now – but who knows? And South America. If the states manage to unify, they'll be the greatest challenge of all, particularly as a democracy. The world will become more dangerous in a few decades, I think. And so, isn't it a better idea to stick together?"

"Of course..." says Yugi. "We can protect each other, right?"

"Right," says the High Priestess. "It's about time we put aside our differences – but as equals."

"Definitely," agrees Yugi, fervently. There is something in her voice which comforts – and also in the warmth of her hands – but a touch of mystery mars the effect. He is certain her words hold more import than he could ever comprehend, but he cannot begin to ascertain what could lie behind them, or even why he might suspect.

Three short, soft knocks at the door wrench him back to reality. "Come in," he says, numbly. Feeling almost authoritative.

"Your Majesty... Excellencies," the newcomer greets them, with a harried kind of decorum. "We have a telegram from Prussia. The rebels have been defeated by Kemetic troops." The Ambassador and High Priestess stand, in swift disbelief. "The colony has been pacified."

**xXx**

Trailing his fingers on the wrought iron railing of Vauxhall Bridge, Kaiba gazes at the vast expanse of blackened buildings, low hanging cloud and steam spewing chimneys that constitute an ordinary London morning. Previously, he had assumed that even the city's darkest, most degenerate recesses had held nothing less mundane than criminals, prostitutes, paupers and deplorable combinations thereof. Now, he has cause to wonder.

Between his spark, and the King's mysterious doppelganger, the supernatural is becoming merely another aspect of Seto Kaiba's ever-turbulent life. And now it will be dissected, examined and quantified in minute detail, because, after so many fruitless hours spent scouring London's dusty back streets – after a continual, seemingly endless blur of ineffectual morning walks made in the vain hope of seeing anything at all – Kaiba has found him again.

Oblivious to his observer, Atem rummages through his pockets, presumably fumbling for a penny for the toll. Curious, Kaiba thinks, that a ghost might need spare change.

And then, in sheer frustration, the deposed King turns to leave, scowling in annoyance. Startled, Kaiba thrusts himself away from the railing, throwing himself into the crowd, but Atem disappears from sight, lost amongst a hundred jostling pedestrians. Fighting the tide of elbows and faces, all seemingly intent on hindering his progress, Kaiba ducks towards him.

Kaiba has never been very good at accepting defeat, and he will not tolerate a loss in this incessant game of cat and mouse. He dodges across the road, narrowly missing a cart and causing at least one man to trip, unleashing a stream of obscenities in Kaiba's direction. None of it matters, for Atem is at large, in London, and Kaiba will have answers if it kills him.

Pushing past a gaggle of children – and educing some alarm from their sternly dressed parents – Kaiba launches into a sprint along Kennington Lane, certain that he had seen a familiar flash of violet disappearing down the street. There are only a few passersby, away from the main road, so Kaiba's footsteps are brutally audible, echoing off the high stone walls of every building, intensifying as he catches sight of his quarry.

Atem turns, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in shock. He exhales sharply, and seems caught for a moment between approaching Kaiba and fleeing as quickly as he can, regardless of how much attention this may provoke.

He decides upon a compromise, eyes darting frantically around, scouring the street for any way to escape capture. Kaiba does not pause, unable to prevent himself smirking as he realises that there is no way that the King can escape - yet not quite daring to hope that all his questions will be answered so easily.

Backing up against the wrought iron gate of a church – closed, as though Sophia herself has forsaken the fallen King of Albion – Atem's hands curl around the intricate metal swirls woven between the bars. Determination strengthens his grip, and he swings himself up like some desperate hunted animal. He falls onto a gravel path, wincing, and Kaiba sees only the flash of blood on his hands before he is gone again.

Steeling himself, he follows, scaling the gate inelegantly, though his landing is painless. The crimson speckles on the stones where Atem grazed his hands are wet and real. Kaiba's only thought is that, _if Atem can bleed, he is living,_ and if the Atem that he is pursuing is neither an apparition nor the product of his deranged mind – then Kaiba has no idea what he is.

Gathering himself, he advances. The church is dark and foreboding, its stained windows dim and its doors undoubtedly locked – Atem cannot have found sanctuary there. There is only one place where he can have hidden.

The path curves gently around the far wall of the church, leading into silence and a secluded graveyard, with stone crosses acting as the only, crumbling monuments to each tomb. The untended grass drizzles rainwater onto Kaiba's shoes, and weeds sprout brazenly around each epitaph, obscuring the fading words. An angel stands passively at the far wall, its alabaster face unmarred by emotion. Though it stands idle, head solemnly bent, its wings are spread to the heavens. Atem's hand rests gently on its arm, his expression mirroring the statue's. As soon as he hears Kaiba approach, he is alert, though no longer rigid with fear.

"You found me," he says softly, voice as Kaiba has always remembered it. His hand leaves the damp stone, extending towards his subject.

"Yes - Your Majesty," Kaiba replies fervently, throat thick with some emotion that he cannot label. He closes the distance, falling to his knees in the dirt, and when he dares to look up again, Atem smiles ruefully.

"Take my hand," he murmurs, and as Kaiba does so, he pulls him up to stand with a grip as strong as steel. His palm is damp with blood and dew. "Kaiba, are you loyal to your king?"

"_Always_."

"I've done nothing to merit such devotion," mutters Atem. "I should have stayed in Kemet." Now that Kaiba is close enough to Atem to see his face, he notes that the skin is dark and tanned from exposure to the sun, and that the tips of his eyelids are lightly accentuated with kohl.

"Your Majesty," he begins, trying to remain collected despite the absurdity of the situation, "why did you return to Albion – and why in secret?"

Atem fixes him with a piercing stare, which Kaiba meets as evenly as he always has. Atem sighs. "The peace talks, Kaiba. I cannot allow Yugi to struggle through them under Mai Kujaku's infernal influence, powerless to control the future of the country that he supposedly rules: I must help him."

Folding his arms, Kaiba considers the explanation. "How did you establish contact with your brother, if you so despise his regent?" The silence is all he needs by way of an answer, echoing hollowly in the empty graveyard. "Your Majesty, the talks are none of my concern – whether Kemet and Albion establish a lasting peace is, if you will pardon my bluntness, largely irrelevant to the steam industry."

Atem laughs. "Prosperous empires breed thriving markets, Kaiba."

"Yet wars are equally lucrative."

The king's eyes narrow. "What is your point?"

"England is in political turmoil. Between terrorist attacks and an overbearing regent, the king can no longer afford to look incompetent, and neither you nor I would find a revolt to be a favourable turn of events. If you wish to aid the King, I can only agree to help you." Here Kaiba stops, scrutinising Atem's face for a trace of emotion.

Atem considers, gazing thoughtfully at his hands. The grazes have scabbed over, and he frowns a little, tucking a stray blond hair beneath his hat. "I want to prove that Yugi is a strong ruler – that he can hold his own, not only in the talks, but for his entire reign as king." He gives a dry chuckle. "It is something of a thankless job, and, moreover, perilous. I would never reject the offer of a potential ally."

Kaiba inclines his head. "Then you will allow me to arrange for the two of you to meet?"

"As long as you allow me sufficient involvement in your plans." Wind echoes hollowly along the rows of grave stones, and Atem shivers. "No doubt you are already plotting to twist the turn of events to your advantage."

"If I wanted to do _that_, then I would merely report your presence to Maximilien Pegasus. No doubt he would be attempting to facilitate your return to the throne before the week was out."

Atem freezes. "What do you know about Pegasus?" There is a note of flint to the words, a stark contrast to Atem's usual, more measured tone.

"Given that his dismissal as Chief Advisor to the King coincided with your brother's rise to power, I know enough," Kaiba growls.

In the far corner, a single grave has been maintained. The grass around it is clipped, and a few flowers lie limp around the stone, their petals dry and brown. Atem kneels before he answers, murmuring some unintelligible prayer. "'Charles Mason, dutiful son, devoted father.'" he reads, smiling sadly. "Pegasus knows that I am here – I cannot have been careful enough in concealing my presence. You are right. He wants me to return to the throne. He wants my support – but he threatened my brother."

"Then we have one thing in common." Atem turns sharply, but Kaiba shakes his head. "Nothing of royal importance. It is a personal matter. But know that I have no lost love for Pegasus. It seems we have a common foe."

"The first step to any promising alliance," comes the dry reply. And then, more earnestly: "I am sorry that I did not reveal myself to you sooner, Kaiba. I was understandably cautious about trusting anyone."

"Understandably," agrees Kaiba. This time, he offers Atem his hand, and the king takes it gratefully. "We should not linger; if you caught pneumonia now, it would severely hinder our chances at success."

"Ever the pragmatist," Atem chides as they leave. As he scales the gate again, he pauses, one leg dangling incongruously over the side, head craned. He is, Kaiba realises, sparing a last glance at the distant figure of the angel. Then Atem seems to remember that he is in public, and that any one of his actions might be seen by a wayward passerby, and he leaps the remaining distance, coming to rest easily on the balls of his feet. "Best hurry," he remarks with an arrogant smirk. "The fate of the country rests in our hands."

**xXx**

Ryou spends the ensuing day feeling guilty beyond all measure. He is acutely aware that his own inability to process something beyond the thieves' control has caused damage that is quite possibly irreparable. For a few moments, intoxicating in the intensity of their self-disdain, he curses his squeamishness and writhes with humiliation at the recollection of a few of his feebler responses. Revisiting yesterday's scenes in the enclosure of his mind – where emotions are heightened, and failures sharpened - is torture. Overall, he rather feels like folding himself into a crumpled wad of shame and never emerging from his room. Ever.

Shortly afterwards, he grows angry.

What right did the thieves have to keep him in the dark? To place him – _unwitting – _in the midst of danger he would have gladly tolerated, had he known? With an increasing sense of injustice, he casts aside his meekness with disdain, and simmers in the indignation of being kept wilfully ignorant. The appalling lack of _trust _involved – the excruciating _indifference _to his situation -!

He would rather like to punch a wall.

He does not, though. Upon reflection, it would probably hurt.

Nonetheless, when Bakura peers cautiously around the door (half-ajar), without so much as the courtesy of knocking, Ryou feels rather inclined to throw something at his insufferable, leonine head.

He does not, though. That would be petty.

Instead, he explodes, a little.

Sweeping aside the stacks of books and papers with which he has been attempting to distract himself during his self-imposed solitary confinement, he lunges to a seated position with an angry swipe of the arm. "_What _do you _want?" _he all but growls, belligerently. He scarcely finds the time to wonder at how he never expected to be able to sound like that.

Bakura gives a predictable little blink, accompanied by a smug double take, which Ryou has absolutely no time for, whatsoever. He is fed up to the back teeth with the overwhelming sense of superiority aimed at him during any and all conversations with this self-glorifying ingrate, and proceeds to inform him accordingly.

"Oh, probably you just want to mock me in a very veiled and covert manner, and perhaps be all charming and sardonic at the same time," snaps Ryou, supplying his own answer before Bakura is able. "You'll make some quip about my foolishness, and then, I don't know, ruffle my hair condescendingly, before proceeding to make some obscure and impenetrable comment about something in your shared past with Marik that I could never hope to understand." He flings himself angrily to his feet, with an affronted little toss of the head. Never does he take the coward's way out and avert his gaze; he meets Bakura's steady yet widening eyes with resolution, scarcely aware of even blinking. "Honestly, it's like the two of you perform according to a script. It's really not very difficult to pick up on the stage directions." The words are delivered sharp and evenly; each syllable a measured pin prick.

The bizarre inner compulsion to follow all this up with an anguished _oh gods, I'm sorry _is summarily recognised and quashed.

Bakura does very little but blink throughout the duration of Ryou's tirade. He waits with a perplexed variety of patience until its conclusion, and it is impossible to discern whether the criticism is absorbed, or simply glances off those stoic eyes. Eventually, he even speaks. "I see Marik has taught you eloquence," he murmurs.

This is quite possible the worst thing he could say, under the circumstances. Any circumstances. But particularly these.

"Absolutely! Everything I am and will be stems from you and Marik!" Ryou bites back, scathingly. "The gods forbid that I should have character or skills of my own."

Bakura's smug half-grin is now full-fledged and sickle-wide. Somehow, nothing could be more infuriating.

Ryou realises they are veering astoundingly off topic, with all the speed and selectivity of an airship crash. This is not the point. This is not even the grievance. Not any longer. More to the point is _this. _"How could you even think I would be capable of abandoning the two of you?"

_This _seems to catch Bakura legitimately off-guard, much more so than anything said previously. "I..." he begins – and, astonishingly, fails to end. An honest-to-goodness fragment sentence.

Ryou takes this as his cue to continue, still unrelentingly furious. "First of all, you keep me ignorant of everything. That, I could honestly begin to forgive you for. It was misguided, but well meant, and I probably wouldn't have had it any other way in those first weeks." Bakura raises both eyebrows, inexplicably mute, face still aligned with shock. "But then, to use it all in order to _test _me further...! You took the one response made at a time where nobody could be expected to think clearly, and held me fast to it. I hesitated – and somehow this failed to meet your absurd standards. So now – to treat me as though I'm _weak, _or _disloyal? _That's selfish, and that's cruel." Ryou falters a touch, voice somewhat raw. "And that's just not true. I care about the both of you, and you _know _this, because there's nothing about me that you can't read – and you exploit it anyway!"

Bakura closes his mouth, soundlessly.

Ryou feels oddly empty – as though, previously, he had been stuffed to the bursting with all manner of words unsaid – and now, as a husk of airy catharsis, he waits.

Bakura falls back onto the bed, as though unable to support himself any longer. "That was – impressive," he observes, faintly. "I – I am impressed."

Ryou sniffs, haughtily. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Actually, yes," admits Bakura. Then, presumably after taking note of Ryou's expression – fire, and renewed indignation – he sighs, relents and continues to speak. "If you imagine that neither I, nor Marik care for your company, you're more foolish than I ever gave you credit for." Ryou stiffens, and bites his lip. "And more paranoid, for that matter, if you indulge in the delusion that we've been testing you. Quite frankly, I'd wager we'd both lack the requisite attention span." He shrugs; a minute slope of the shoulders, punctuating the resultant silence with a vague rustle. "Ha. There's no exploitation involved, Ryou. You behaved idiotically beforehand –"

"I did _not –"_

"And you had reason, but it was insensitive. I judged you accordingly. Just now, you spoke – well, admirably – and my judgement's changed." Ryou opens his mouth to protest at this little show of calculation, but Bakura shushes him with an impatient swipe of the hand. "I have opinions, you know – and there's nothing you can do about _that. _If it's any consolation, my opinion of you now is that... I'm impressed. I expected less of you. I misjudged." There follows a light pause, during which he tilts his head oddly to the side in consideration. "Sorry," he adds, shortly, as something of an afterthought. And smiles.

Ryou finds these confused statements increasingly difficult to process. They simply fail to align themselves with Bakura's accustomed behaviour or outlook – or with each other, for that matter; the overall impression seems too contradictory. Lost in the multiple implications, he latches onto the least ambiguous element with gratitude for its comparative simplicity. "I – apology accepted, I think," he breathes. With it, he seems to exhale a large part of his previous resentment; accordingly, it melts away into the atmosphere, leaving him strangely pacified. "Yes, definitely," he decides. His head, and thoughts, and the very room seem instantly lighter – though incomprehensible, all of it.

"Glad to see you've made up your mind," drawls Bakura. "For a moment, my heart was a-flutter with suspense."

Ryou gives a sharp laugh. Yes, here he is again; Bakura has veered back into his usual behaviour. Somehow, the resumption of sarcasm succeeds in obliterating the presence of tension and misgivings that veritably crowded the room beforehand. And here they are now, peculiarly alone for its absence.

"I suppose I'll leave you in peace, then," says Bakura. "In every sense of the phrase, I hope."

Not all the misgivings, perhaps. "Y-yes, I suppose so," says Ryou, vaguely.

Bakura exits as unobtrusively as he entered; the meeting feels curtailed somewhat prematurely. _But then, _Ryou observes, _what was there left to say? _

**xXx**

**Extra notes:**

**- Nothing much to add here, aside from a pre-emptive apology for my woefully slippery hold on the fundamentals of economics. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Previously, on **_**Existential Angst: The Musical...**_

**Yugi has a tolerably successful meeting with the Kemetic consul, in which he, Ishizu and Mana discuss the peace treaty and various issues involving trade. Although his inexperience is evident, they end up forging closer ties. The meeting ends with the news that rebellion in Prussia has been quashed by the Egyptian army. Meanwhile, Kaiba sees his own, personal spectral stalker on the streets of London, and chases him into a church graveyard. Here, he finally converses with the living, breathing ex-King Atem, and the two form a tentative alliance based on mutual self interest. Back on the Diabound, Ryou is greeted by Bakura. He promptly explodes into a spate of frenzied accusation based partially on truth. However, at the end of this fraught little tete-a-tete, they emerge with more respect for one another than ever before. **

**Now let's flash forward to a few days later, back on the Diabound...**

**xXx**

Whilst Ryou and Marik are ostensibly reconciled, Bakura rarely finds the two of them occupying the same room. One will invariably make himself scarce as soon as the other approaches. Bakura suspects that this is some bizarre manifestation of guilt, and finds the notion simultaneously maddening and interminably tedious.

In light of this, he has busied himself with a solitary task in the living room, so that, out of hunger and desperation, the other two must eventually meet in the kitchen. Thus far, the plan has been unsuccessful: whilst Marik has indeed colonised the kitchen, Ryou has yet to appear from his bedroom, and, given the number of Kemetic books that have emigrated there with him, is unlikely to emerge for some time.

Bakura, meanwhile, is writing a letter. The beauty of letters, he muses, is that one can write them to their heart's content whilst in the air and – no matter many days it takes to land – always be certain that if something significant occurs during that time, they will have to change nary a post script. The best letters, he decides, are trivial. After all, who would want to hear about anything important through the Royal Mail?

Following a particularly violent judder from the Diabound's _idiosyncratic_ engine, an unsuspecting 't' suddenly becomes half an inch longer. Bakura sighs, carefully replacing his pen and inspecting the damage. Once, in a stunning display of insensitivity and colossal indifference to personal safety, Marik had called the ship '_an elderly, outdated rust-bucket'_, to which Bakura replied that the Diabound was his very soul and quintessence of his being, and, overall, far more valuable to him than Marik himself. They had not spoken another word to each other for a week. The situation that they are in now is somewhat direr, but Bakura sees no reason for it to persist for any longer than a grudge over an insult to his dirgible. Marik is not one for sense, but Bakura has developed something akin to faith in Ryou's judgement.

Ryou – _speak of the demon_ – shuffles sleepily into the living room. "Good morning," he says, dutifully, and immediately moves to peer over Bakura's shoulder. "What are you writing?"

"Wretch," Bakura intones, "out of all of the myriad questions of which I can conceive, there is not a single one more annoying than asking me what I am writing. … And good morning to you, too."

"You signed it." says Ryou, unperturbed. "Is it a letter?"

"Yes," replies Bakura dryly, "it is a letter."

Ryou pulls up a chair. "Who did you address it to?" Evidently, the wretch is curious as to the existence of anyone on good enough terms with Bakura to voluntarily establish correspondence.

"'To whom did I address it'," Bakura corrects, idly collecting the dry sheets. "No one you know."

"But if you send it next time we touch down…" Ryou frowns. "…won't the bounty hunter be able to trace us?"

"Otogi?" Bakura grins, and he is sure that he can taste a hint of blood on the back of his tongue. He needs to get out soon, or he will murder either himself or his travelling companions; whichever occurs to him first in the heat of the moment. "Let him try. Besides, I do not plan on posting this."

"Eh?" Ryou makes one of his delightful noises of concerned, ineloquent perplexity, perhaps redeeming himself for his earlier bluntness.

"The beauty of letters," Bakura informs him, "is that one never has to send them."

"Oh?" Delightful, perhaps, but fast growing old, and laden with a touch too much amused indulgence.

"Diaries are woefully inadequate. The moment I put pen to paper, any thought worth having disintegrates into a creative void. So I write letters, instead." Bakura snorts. "When I write at all, which is a far from frequent occurrence." He notes, as he folds the pages with care, that a change has come over Ryou, who stares at him with eyes comically enlarged.

"I could do that," he breathes, as though hardly daring to suggest that he might have amassed so practical a knowledge of a writing system as to scrawl a few paragraphs of correspondence. Then he laughs, uneasily. "I didn't mean to sound so childish." He seems to have become uncomfortably aware of _that_. "I only…"

"You can write," Bakura chimes in helpfully. He seals the envelope properly, wax and all (if only so that he can tell if his travelling companions are respecting his privacy, and maybe just to get some use out of an overly ornate gold sealing ring that he picked up in Italy), tucking it away in a drawer beneath the desk.

Ryou props himself happily up on one elbow, pointedly ignoring the look that Bakura gives him for doing so. "Yes," he says eventually. "I think I should follow your example, if only to keep practising my writing."

"Far be it from me to stop you," responds Bakura, pushing the ink across the table, and Ryou seems to take that as a challenge, grabbing the pen and carefully adjusting his grip into the standard hold that Marik has so meticulously drilled into him. However, he pauses before he can put pen to paper.

"I can't do it in front of you!"

Failing to conceal a snicker at Ryou's discomfiture, Bakura raises one eyebrow. "Your handwriting is not that dreadful."

"It's embarrassing," whines Ryou. "You'll think I'm being ridiculous."

"If you start that letter in front of me, I might be persuaded to tell you who it was you saw me writing to." Bakura grins recklessly, convinced that Ryou will not take him up on the offer. The wretch is always far too easy to tease, and has none of Marik's unbending willpower. Nor does he possess the sanctimony that fuels it, but that is hardly a disappointment.

"Fine!" exclaims Ryou, flourishing the pen with determination. "Besides," he mutters, "you were probably only writing to some beautiful Italian admirer who became smitten with you in Rome."

Bakura allows himself a smirk at that unwarranted display of facetiousness. "Wrong. Get to it."

"I'll bet she's blonde."

He cannot fail to laugh at that. Time to knock the demon down a notch, before he becomes entirely insufferable. "Whoever said it was a woman?"

"And now," retorts Ryou, through an admittedly well-concealed blush, "I know why you don't fear capture by our bounty hunter. Was it his roguish charm?" He scribbles something on the paper, one finger keeping track of the spacing between the words.

Stroking his chin theatrically, Bakura pretends to consider. "Perhaps, or maybe his proficiency with a pistol… but again, you are wrong. Otogi was, after all, quite the attractive _brunet_."

With a slight sigh of annoyance, Ryou crosses out a spelling mistake. "I have the first paragraph. I suppose you can see it."

Bakura begins to scan the page, but gets no further than '_Dear Amane_'. "And you mocked me!" he scoffs. "You never told us you had a sweetheart waiting back in Egypt. Whatever will she think of you for running away to Europe with a pair of criminals?" He barely bites back another sarcastic comment at '_I miss you more than you could ever know'_ and is about to dissolve into laughter, when he notices that Ryou has fallen deadly silent.

It is then that he reads: '_your brother is in safe hands now, so you do not have to worry about me'_ and the laughter dies in his throat. He begins to feel uncomfortably heartless by the time he has noticed '_are our parents doing well? I like to think that you are with them, in Aaru.'_

When applied to himself, cruelty is not a concept that has ever bothered Bakura. He does, however, possess some semblance of tact, no matter what Marik may say on the matter. "I suppose we are a little similar," he manages, in the end, and Ryou's eyes narrow.

"How so?" he asks, coldly.

"Well," Bakura begins, and is – for once – not entirely sure how to continue. He forges on bravely. "I was writing to my family, too."

At that, Ryou looks a little less judgmental, and far more curious. "You can write to your family?"

"In the same way that you can," Bakura says, evenly. "I didn't mean to insult your sister. For one thing, I've heard that the deceased can be quite vengeful."

"Oh," says Ryou, seemingly satisfied. He takes the sheet of paper from Bakura's unresisting hand, and continues to write. Bakura scowls.

"Some curiosity, wretch, would not go amiss." The ship's engine gives an inexplicable shudder, and Ryou crosses out another word, fixated on the page. He has never thought he would be one to encourage shameless prying – but then, never has he failed to encounter it, and the absence irks him.

"Are you Kemetic?" Ryou asks a few seconds later, and Bakura stares. "I wondered," he adds.

"I was born in Egypt." Bakura shrugs. "My mother was Albian. Or she considered herself such, at any rate, as did the rest of my family. They were quite proud of the fact."

Ryou does not appear to make the connection, brow creasing. "So?"

Bakura clicks his tongue. "It was not so long ago that being an Englishman in Egypt was an especially undesirable position. It could be fatal, for an outspoken loyalist. You might be too young to remember. I was only a child when my village was slaughtered."

How much of this explanation Ryou absorbs is something of a mystery, but he nods. "By whom?"

A pause. "The unforeseen by-product of maladroit foreign policy," says Bakura, and leaves it at that.

They are silent for a while: Ryou scribbling away at his letter, telling his sister about his life as an outlaw; Bakura diligently contemplating the wall.

"You don't blame anyone?" The words come seemingly from nowhere, but Bakura follows the train of thought easily enough.

"No," he says. "I did not turn to thievery for the sake of some grudge." Less seriously, he allows himself a lopsided smirk. "It was an inherent talent." Craning over Ryou, Bakura inspects what he has written. "You spelt 'obnoxious' incorrectly."

"And how is 'obnoxious' spelt?" inquires Ryou, without glancing up.

"Don't know," says Bakura, winking with a brand of smugness that, he reflects, he must attempt to patent. "I'm busy. You'll have to ask Marik."

From Ryou's expression, the wink was perhaps more unsettling than intended, but the message is adequately conveyed, because he slumps in his chair. "It will be awkward. What are you busy with, anyway?"

"Absolutely everything," rejoins Bakura promptly. "I have marginalia to ponder, kerdomeletia to cure and weltschmerz in which to indulge."

Ryou does not seem particularly impressed by this diatribe, but complies, taking a reluctant breath and making his way towards the kitchen, paper in hand. Bakura watches with nothing if not keen anticipation. After all, Ryou and Marik are being imbeciles, and the sooner they realise it, the better.

If he had any doubts, they are quickly assuaged. Marik, face set firmly in its most tutorly expression (which is, on its own, enough to make Bakura fail to suppress a snigger), throws himself down at the table. "Out," he orders, and Bakura leaps from his chair before he is removed by bodily force.

Gingerly, Ryou sits, and is treated to a lecture on vowels that makes Bakura's attention melt away with alarming ease. Flinging himself down upon the chaise longue, he attempts to watch the impromptu lesson covertly, and finds himself twisting backwards for a better viewpoint, utterly, obviously fixated on the proceedings. Generally, he would savour this opportunity as a way to irritate Marik with minimal effort, but instead, for reasons that he cannot quite understand, he merely finds the situation annoying. Especially as he is developing a crick in his neck.

Evidently, Ryou's definition of 'awkward' is somewhat different to his own. That, or the wretch has wildly underestimated his influence on Marik's temperament. Bakura feels an inclination towards the latter, given that his partner in armed robbery – who has spent the morning languishing in self pity in the kitchen – is _grinning_. It is all rather sickening.

"Bakura," Marik declares, cutting into his thoughts with vehemence born of ten minutes of silent frustration, "you can either join us at the desk or leave the room, but I will not permit you to continue gawking at our backs for the rest of the lesson."

"Gawking!" exclaims Bakura in outrage. "As though I am even _capable_ of such a thing!"

Ryou opens his mouth – which, given his appropriately devilish expression, is presumably for the purposes of making a cutting remark about reading over people's shoulders and the level of gawking that this might entail – and, in an act of pre-emptive defence, Bakura moves to sit by them. He may not be able to live through a sermon on the properties of Kemetic modal verbs, and Ryou's ill treatment thereof, but he can make a valiant effort in the interests of establishing peace amongst the Diabound's passengers. If he drops dead in his seat, Ryou will, no doubt, take the necessary measures for the preservation of his soul, so he is sure that his general health is assured, in the grand scheme of things.

"The discomfort is nearly palpable," Bakura mutters wryly in Ryou's ear as he sits. Ryou has the grace to look abashed, before his attention is redirected to far more important manners, such as his ending a sentence in a preposition, and also his grumbling stomach.

"I didn't have breakfast," Ryou complains, and Bakura rolls his eyes.

"Whose fault was that?"

Marik looks at them both in mild perplexity - before, with a sense of realisation that is nearly audible, the penny drops. "If shun the only competent grammarian aboard the Diabound, you can hardly expect your English to improve," is all he says. Thus, Bakura trusts that Ryou has been duly exonerated (the offense was, after all, hardly one-sided), and the brief limbo between forgiveness and normalcy is never mentioned again.

**xXx**

The man on the wall stares at him in the moonlight, eyes neither accusing, nor sympathetic: merely posing a question. He must be a scientist, Kaiba muses, for he is timing his experiment precisely, showing no trace of emotion towards its subject. The bird struggling in the air pump beside him elicits no compassion from its captor; the man pays it no heed, though his stopwatch rests absently in hand. If the man is truly a scientist, he cannot be particularly successful, nor devoted. What scientist would forsake his work before its fruition; turn from it at a critical moment – and all in order to silently enquire as to the accusations of an unseen observer?

Really, Kaiba thinks, he should have that damned painting burned. It haunts the wall of his study like a spectre, the last remnant of Gozaburo's reign. It is making it entirely too difficult to do his paperwork.

Exhaling sharply in annoyance, he returns to his letter. It is addressed to a specialist in the production of unique apparatus, for scientific experiments as groundbreaking as they are esoteric. The man has provided Kaiba with equipment before, exactly to his specifications, and never breathed a word of it to the corporation's competitors; his discretion is to be admired.

A shaft of blue light falls across the paper.

Odd, but Kaiba is certain that he sees a touch of amusement in the expression of the man in the painting. Scowling, he turns to close the curtains against the watery glow of the moon. The light of his candle is entirely sufficient for writing, and reassuringly _orange _in hue.

Kaiba closes his eyes for a moment, daring the world not to resume its logical mode of operation. His eyelids dampen the conflicting light of the room into a solid blackness, and he finds himself in a state of uncertainty, as though he is a man with a stopwatch, impatiently awaiting the asphyxiation of a bird trapped in a vacuum – or perhaps its salvation, if only the viewer might bid him set it free. Kaiba opens his eyes.

His desk is still illuminated by blue, unearthly light. Bluer than the glancing reflection of the moon on mahogany; bluer than the sky at night; bluer than seas and forget-me-nots and the sash of a girl, face averted from the form of a convulsing bird beside her in a painting. With a wordless cry of irritation, he turns to one of numerous bookshelves, grabbing a blunt object at random. With all the force he can muster, Kaiba hurls it at the picture on his wall.

It connects with the doorframe instead, the resounding crash almost drowning out the indignant rustle of its pages. On closer inspection, it becomes apparent that the missile was a book of Spanish etchings, now tangled and crippled by its fall.

"_Sophia_," mutters Kaiba, and returns to his seat. The furniture is mercifully shrouded in shadow. A single point of flame laps at the surrounding air. All is as it should be.

_Seto…_

A whisper of air about his hair, tinged indigo with wistfulness.

"I am not mad," Kaiba tells the empty room, and feels rather foolish not a moment later. Informing oneself of one's sanity is not, he realises, an encouraging step towards normality. That said, neither is flinging a book of Goya prints at the painting on the wall, in the hopes that it will stop looking overly smug.

Normality is, Kaiba is forced to admit, not a concept with which he is well acquainted.

_Seto._

In an instant, the candle flickers luminescent, ethereal blue. And then, the word trails away, and sapphire is once again replaced with firelight, and Kaiba is left alone.

…Except that the room was always empty, and Kaiba has been alone for hours. He must stop this. He must clear his mind of fantasy, and focus on his new projects, and on Mokuba – and even himself. He needs to sleep more, and to remember to eat. There are a million tasks that he must undertake to stave off this foolishness, and he is resolved to bear each and every one of them. Kaiba can afford no weakness. If he is not always in perfect mental condition then his work will suffer. An innovation in France before his newest project is exhibited to the general public could ruin him; Henri Giffard may be a buffoon – and a Frenchman – but he is never more than a step behind Kaiba Corporation.

So Kaiba picks up the book, replaces it on the shelf, and, settling at his desk, continues to write. Let the supernatural attempt to invade his life: Kaiba is ever vigilant.

**xXx**

When Mana hears the latch to the door of Ishizu's room lift at its customary hour - at the dead zone between eleven 'o' clock and midnight - she resolves the same as with all preceding occurrences: to think nothing of it. Indeed, watching the breezy slip of a shadow float past her open door and swiftly through the hallway, she works so assiduously to think of nothing at all that her mind feels burdened with its very blankness. Yet, like predators encroaching upon a peaceful clearing, all manner of misgivings press against its placid shadows. One cannot banish fears by sheer will, however forceful. Where might her friend be heading at this hour with such astonishing regularity? If Mana did not know better, she would assume it to be some kind of romantic assignation – but this is _Ishizu, _her steely, immovable companion – and to charge her with such folly would be ridiculous. No. And if Mana could only believe that, she would not be so horribly concerned. As it is, she cannot bear to persist in playing the blind woman.

Swamped by the dark, and still reeling from the sound of soft footsteps, Mana considers her options. If she is not to leave Ishizu to her own devices, she would be betraying their strong, semi-implicit recognition of each others' privacy with regards to their own agendas. They work entirely on that trust, each firm in their unyielding faith in the other's reason. To follow her, then, would breach these thousand fragile bonds of co-dependence and harmony. And where would Mahaado be then, if his Ambassador and High Priestess did not trust each other unwaveringly as a matter of course?

But then, never has such outright secrecy been involved in any of their dealings together. Trust will crumble of its own accord if Ishizu persists in stretching it to the utmost. Mana is certain that so many sleepless nights have impacted on the Ambassador's patience and concentration, as it would for anyone possessing abilities which fall short of the superhuman. Moreover, Ishizu has always possessed what Mana considers to be a fairly pernicious habit of shouldering various crippling burdens by herself, with nary a whisper to indicate their undertaking. This, when surrounded by friends who would happily relieve her of every scrap of the load is, to Mana's mind, simply unforgiveable.

No time for further debate; Ishizu's footsteps are fast fading and soon she will disappear along with a thousand other refugees into London's dense gloom.

Mana leaps out of bed with alacrity, flinging the covers and curtains aside as she staggers to her feet. Presently, she cringes at the resultant din of rustling fabric and juddering floorboards, reflecting that whilst stealth may no longer be a valid option, she must try to be quieter. Sparing a few seconds to clumsily light a half-burned candle – and to curse reflexively as the lucifer fails to connect with the wick – she hastens to the front hall, taking care to conceal any sound of movement, and in all likelihood failing abysmally. The house so generously provided for them by an unknown cluster of low level government bureaucrats is a genuine Tudor building, preserved and updated with modern utilities – proving that even low level government bureaucrats are adequately equipped with a sense of irony. Mana has never been able to shake off the idea that it was selected by design, for the resentment still clings. It presents a daunting glimpse of historical continuity; a squat, cross-hatched showcase of Albion's imperial history. Yes, there is almost certainly a touch of mockery in the choice. But perhaps, she nigh-obsessively reflects, there is something self-defeating about the whole endeavour; it presents a certain nostalgic impotence that the English court, at times, appears to mirror. A majestic yet crumbling nation, caught in the trappings of its own illustrious past – and underfoot, the shards of an inhospitable present.

At any rate, the floorboards creak quite dreadfully.

She slips through the front door swiftly enough to catch a glimpse of Ishizu's receding figure in the harsh thicket of London's perpetual fog. She treads lightly, seeming almost to glide above the haze, like some otherworldly sprite. Mana stumbles a little ways behind, huddling at the edges of skeletal street lamps, and noticing in their intermittent flare that Ishizu is cloaked, with hair tied tightly behind a pale woollen scarf.

Mana shivers in the damp; she scarcely found the time to slip a filmy dressing gown over her frail nightshirt before venturing outside, and would feel uncomfortably conspicuous were it not for the crisp anonymity of the dark and the mist. Her slippered feet are insufficiently protected from the jutting stones of these narrow backstreets. They skid unpleasantly over the streets' grime, fast soaking up icy mud.

Ishizu does not glance back once – she treads inexorably forwards, with clarity of purpose that Mana takes a faint moment to envy. They pass through narrow, half-deserted streets of whose existence Mana was previously unaware; the broken little capillaries of London that leak sewage and dirt as their lifeblood. They move past buildings in a state of semi-collapse: houses that buckle in on themselves like top-heavy cakes; shops whose rafters have bent into precarious curves; all crowned in a greasy plume of tepid mist. People – scraps of humbled fabric – stalk past, hunched over, muttering to one another in indecipherable patois. Mana, wraithlike and clean, is ignored.

Ishizu's path finally winds its way to a halt, as she approaches a small, decaying tavern. As a destination, it reeks of both anticlimax and stale alcohol. Mana creases her delicate nose in genteel disgust as she watches the shabby interior swallow her friend.

**xXx**

Ishizu rests her chin in her two cupped hands – inquisitive, and seemingly open; to all intents and purposes, the very simulacrum of honesty. She has made a sincere effort to disarm all expressions and gestures; to abolish any hint of threat or disguise from her features, and conceal their mask with a further cloak of integrity. The fog of London's naked streets has been replaced by a continuous stream of cigarette smoke indoors, and she blinks the sting out of her eyes with careful candour. She is on her first tankard of lukewarm beer; her companion has drained two, yet his steady eyes remain trained on her every sip.

He had greeted her with a gentle nod – not curt, but taciturn. "It is a sign of monstrous times when we behold a so many souls lacking both coat and shoes in these streets – and yet, a time of renewed revolutionary vigour to see a comrade of many years return to the fold." His voice was mild, yet firm – and tempered by a friendly undercurrent.

She had responded with a polite, measured smile. "All the better for the coming storm. The tortured masses will reap the benefits of their suffering one day - soon."

Now that they have dispensed with trading cautious, obligatory optimism, and brushed similar preliminaries aside, it is remarkably easy to cut to the chase. Refreshing, even; a welcome respite from tense negotiations in which countless words of veiled hostility and no substance must be tossed either way before a single issue is broached.

"So, comrade," he resumes, in tones still warm, though hushed, "if comrade you be – it seems churlish of me to pry, but I have to ask. Why have you been out of contact with the party for so long?"

She smiles, thinly; she expected as much, and has made due preparation. "I've been underground for a while," she says – cagily at first, and careful, be ever so careful. "Honestly? I was scared. I was a fool. I didn't think the party could provide protection – a-and I baulked. But now that the movement has made a resurgence, I took heart, and made contact – and..." _Careful. _"I wish to help. Moreover, I want to inform the leadership of every detail of my actions."

He nods, seemingly convinced. "These actions – you've yet to tell me precisely what you did. I understand your caution, but you're safe here, I promise. This place is entirely discreet." Carefully, he takes another swallow of his drink – eyes never leaving Ishizu's own.

_Time for the performance._

This man expects drama, panache, the uncompromising air of a quixotic rebel. She will not disappoint. Nor will she fail to temper her actions with the requisite ounce of melodrama.

Quick as refracted sunlight, Ishizu darts a hand into the pocket of her robe for the object she has kept hidden for weeks – and now, prepared to allow the horror of remembrance to resurface, with the added sheen of painful pretence, she whips it out. It is a dainty, sleek-edged dagger, stylistically curved, yet otherwise Spartan in design.

With spider-limbed grace, she swings it round, allowing it to bite deep with a tortured creek into the wood of the table. The flickering lamp at the centre of the room flings enough illumination their way to glance off the lettering carved deep into the weapon's hilt: _Revealing Light. _

"Six years ago, I assassinated an Egyptian noble by the name of Ishtar."

At this moment, the astonishment that lights in her companion's face is eclipsed by all manner of chaos.

**xXx**

To her horror, through the grimy side window, Mana spies Ishizu withdraw a weapon and brandish it with cool-eyed abandon before her companion. Save for willing the Kemetic Pantheon to lend her protection – and reminding them tersely that all those times she cursed, they knew she meant no offence – Mana does not spare one note of consideration to her next actions, which follow as inexorably as if some beneficent spirit had breathed motion into her limbs. At the sight of her friend in danger, she rushes to the front of the building, flinging aside the sharp-hinged doors, and hurtles into the dense fug of the tavern.

"Ishizu!" she cries in anguish, locating the table and flying hastily towards it. "Let go of the Ambassador, you brute!"

If the spontaneous flare of panic that surges across Ishizu's face is not enough to trigger the wrench of shame in Mana's stomach, the acute awareness of her ungainly apparel, central position, and nigh ear-splitting evocation is enough to satisfy all the requirements for abject humiliation. Compounding matters is the expression of the man beside her friend, whose blurred gaze of disorientation is testament to his overall harmlessness.

When this solidifies into something resembling comprehension, and for that matter, realisation of a truth not altogether to his liking, Mana in turn begins to understand the depth of her misjudgement. She had hoped that, in revealing Ishizu's rank, she might intimidate the would-be assailant. As it is, she realises she has only betrayed a dangerous secret.

Ishizu makes haste; to the astonishment of all observers – who later, Mana imagines, would ascribe it to mental exaggeration, or drink – she raises an arm and delivers a swift, competent blow to the side of his neck. It is almost bizarrely elegant in execution. As he collapses, she mutters something that might be pithy – yet might, on the other hand be a murmured apology, and then drags Mana from the building at an abrupt, almost dizzying pace. Mana takes a moment to consider how they must appear – two fleeing sylphs, loose, spectral garments tailing behind in their wake – and in that moment, they are gone.

**xXx**

**Extra notes:**

**- The painting on Kaiba's wall is 'An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump' by Joseph Wright. Also relevant to that scene is the Goya etching, 'The Sleep of Reason'. **


	18. Chapter 18

**Previously, on **_**Ishizu Ishtar: Diplomaterminator... **_

**Ryou, Marik and Bakura manage to shake off the last, residual traces of awkwardness in time for an impromptu grammar session. Oh, and we learn a little about Bakura's backstory: he apparently has a family who died due to 'the unforeseen by-product of maladroit foreign policy'. Meanwhile, Kaiba's sanity quietly deteriorates in the safety of his study. An innocent book of Goya prints is thrown at the wall. Elsewhere in London, Mana follows Ishizu on one of her mystery midnight jaunts. Ishizu meets with an agent of Revealing Light, and persuades him that she is an ex-member, and responsible for the death of her father on behalf of the group. However, Mana bursts in and interrupts the discussions, blowing Ishizu's cover with almost systematic flair. **

**Unfortunately, we're not about to find out what happens next just yet. First of all, let's return to what everyone's favourite manipulative quasi-royal and her companion have been up to in the same time... **

**xXx**

Anzu marvels at how the atmosphere at the Palace may transmute from rippling, panicked mayhem to graceful serenity in the space of several days. Previously, it seemed the stability of the Kemetic Empire – and with it, the notion of Empire in general – lay under the colossal, screeching, pitchfork-wielding threat of mass uprising. Today, it seems for all the world that no serious politician has any substantial thought in their mind save demure anticipation of the King's eighteenth birthday in a month's time. She regards the change with a subtle flush of amusement; these Ministers, Advisors and Secretaries of Something or Other are all so single-minded, and so changeable – like a bustling, supremely malleable swarm of bumblebees. She observes as Mai ushers them to their wonted channels, shepherding the stray insects to their accustomed hives, be it the Treasury, the Foreign Office or various other segments of government, all to commence buzzing about their ordinary business.

Government, she decides, bears certain resemblance to babysitting.

The Prime Minister, Edward Cardwell, even made a cursory appearance. Anzu was mildly shocked – even somewhat appalled – by the unveiled disdain with which Lady Mai greeted him; a far sharper replica of her usual haughty charm. Scarcely did she allow the poor man to conclude a sentence before a swift, curt reply was ventured, containing minimal packages of brusque information and lined with a neat thread of contempt: all bound up in briskness. Anzu hardly had the time to register pity before he was whisked out of the room once more – exorcised to the Parliament from whence he came.

Parliament – the monarchy's one concession to popular calls for democracy – is, she has always known, merely a consultative assembly, with no power to do anything other than express mild disapproval of the actions of the throne. She did not apprehend, until now, quite how the word 'consultative' failed to capture the situation – and how easily 'redundant' might suffice in its place. Now, she understands quite well that the institution is little better than a sham. At the point of discovery, feeling vaguely disillusioned, she was markedly cool towards the Regent for all of several hours, before the ineluctable thaw occurred, heralded by Mai's incorrigible _warmth. _

Quasi-monarchs, she reasons, are almost offensively captivating – and impossible to hold an effective grudge against, regardless of numerous past transgressions.

"Sorry for the preoccupations, darling," says Lady Mai, catching up with Anzu in a sweep of petticoats. The fabric foams around Anzu's thinly slippered feet as Mai places delicate hands about her shoulders. "Comes with the territory, I'm afraid."

Anzu leans into the hold, with a flicker of a smile. "It was a crisis, my lady. I can forgive you for spending time doing your job."

Mai titters and gives her a playful shake before releasing her. "It wasn't a crisis. It was an opportunity. But you shouldn't be fussing over trivial things like Prussia."

Anzu swivels to face her, all levity evaporating from her face in the cool breeze of condescension. And yet – Mai does not intend to patronise; that much is clear. No, she is trying to _hide. _This woman, Anzu has come to realise, possesses a vast array of elaborate masks – each so feathered, bejewelled and dazzling that the face beneath is swallowed in a maelstrom of grandeur. These airs form one such ethereal shield. But – let things rest as they may. Anzu feels little inclination to tear at the disguise. Let it be discarded voluntarily, if at all.

"What's the matter, sweeting? Sulky after I neglected you?" Mai inquires, impishly, darting an impetuous kiss against Anzu's cheek. "There," she says, smiling at the blush it triggers. "My promise. I'm going nowhere without you anymore, and I'm sorry for being such a recluse till now."

Anzu succumbs to these attentions with a resigned, if somewhat misunderstood demeanour. Lady Mai's delicate embraces produce a similar result to when she is being dressed like a doll, painted and powdered for show: the faintly overbearing, enveloping feeling of being both scrutinised and altered. At all times, she is apt to feel a little lost. "It really doesn't bother me," she insists, dully. "I _can _entertain myself for a while, you know. This place has a _library." _

Mai tuts, rather excitedly, whilst turning her focus to Anzu's hair, sifting through the strands and realigning the locks in a way that is most distracting. "But what did you do for company?" she crows. "The King was playing nice with the Kemetic consul and Honda and Jonouchi were supervising. I take it loneliness doesn't move you?"

Anzu laughs, with a trace of reluctance. "If I were cooped up for long enough, certainly it would. But it's hardly been a week."

"Strong girl," muses Mai, breathily. Anzu cannot wrap her head around the Regent's sudden girlish turn. She attributes it, with somewhat frustrated logic, to yet another caprice.

"So," says Anzu, deciding that now would certainly be the appropriate time to terminate so strange a conversation. "What's today's agenda?"

Mai chuckles, shepherding her protégée gently through the hallways. "Sounds so mechanistic. Usually I'm fine with that, you know. But for you... it doesn't suit. Dispense with 'agenda', if you will. Today is devoted to _culture." _Anzu blinks, rapidly. "Put on something presentable and meet me at the front entrance in fifteen minutes."

At Anzu's insistence, Lady Mai ceased to help her with her toilette; Anzu now manages the cumbersome fastenings of various sprawling dresses independently, with occasional help from Charlotte, a quavering, mouselike servant girl with whom Anzu felt immediate affinity and instantly appropriated from the kitchens to serve as her lady's maid. Neither girl has much idea of how to conduct oneself as servant and employer respectively; hence the compromise is a tentative yet strengthening friendship. A girl, after all, must have her confidante – and a doting maid her wayward mistress – it is simply the way that life is expected to function.

"It is," announces Anzu, flopping onto the bed and scrunching her eyes closed, arms splayed out on either side, "_impossible _to understand her." The curtains framing the four poster, thus stretched, yield to an ominous tearing noise. Anzu gives a contemplative sigh. "Always three steps ahead and secretive about the interim gap." She giggles, gently; indeed, there is something inexplicable about Mai that makes her wish to laugh, roll her eyes and perhaps even run away, simultaneously.

Charlotte gives a blank, rather hapless shrug. "I assume you'll want help dressing, Miss?" she interjects, helpfully.

"S'pose so. The green silk will do. Don't know what was wrong with _this," _says Anzu, eyes still closed, gesturing haphazardly at the yellow slip she is currently wearing. "Gah. Guess I'll find out."

Charlotte gives a fraction of another shrug, seems to think better of the motion halfway through its execution, and allows her shoulders to sheepishly collapse again. Swiftly, she moves over to the wardrobe to fetch the requested garment. With a perceptible jolt, Anzu sits up, causing the maid to give a soft, startled jump.

"Miss?"

"Oh, nothing," replies Anzu, vaguely. "It occurs to me that I really should be angry with her for telling me not to worry about Prussia. But... curiously, I'm not. She does that, you know. Has a knack for making anger – disappear. It's annoying. Really annoying." She muses for a moment, chewing meditatively on a stray strand of hair. "Yeah," she adds, hazily – and finishes on this inchoate note. Charlotte gives a faint smile, confused but sympathetic.

**xXx**

Mai hovers about the place gates, daintily bound up in an elaborate indigo-coloured brocade gown, topped with a heavy cobalt bonnet. Donning the clothes in the first place, she felt somewhat like a shade or ghost – yet the mystique of this notion satisfies; the supernatural has a certain appealing elegance to it. She feels that she must adopt a languorous pose to suit this icy regalia – an impulse with which, drolly, she complies, leaning snakelike against a pillar, one arm trailing smoothly above her head. Hah. How delightfully Greek.

And lo, her protégée approaches, looking reasonably elegant in a demure silk dress. Pointedly, Mai traces her pocket watch chain with the very lightest of touches – nothing so vulgar as to glance directly at the watch face itself; only enough to convey the subtlest suggestion of unpunctuality. Anzu steps out rather primly to join her and immediately ruins the effect by directly sticking out her tongue. Mai feels the spread of an irrepressible smile. So she is learning confidence. Not that it needed particularly to be taught – the girl is brash enough for two; yet mischief in the face of royalty is a hard-won trait to be admired rather than discouraged. Indeed, Anzu's wilful blindness to status – treating her maid with as much dogged friendliness as her monarch – rather mystifies Mai, at times.

"All present and correct?" twinkles Anzu, with cheer.

"Indeed," murmurs Mai. "And you look rather stunning today. Very different. I congratulate myself on having cultivated a disarming veneer." Mechanically, she straightens the lace at Anzu's throat.

"Oh, _charming _am I?" repeats Anzu, delightedly. "How very deceptive." A scattering of laughter.

Mai raises an eyebrow at the comment. It appears that Anzu has also learned archness. How very novel. "Looks always belie character," she says, to test this newfound wit.

"_Always?" _And, oh, the reply is _roguish_.

"This is a nothing-conversation, darling," says Mai, sweepingly. She takes Anzu neatly by the arm, leading her towards the carriage that waits for them at the road side: an ice-coloured phaeton, drawn by two perfectly matched greys with placid, liquid eyes.

"And it began, I believe, with a nothing-compliment," counters Anzu, sedately.

Gallantly, Mai offers her a hand up into the passenger seat, which she refuses with dignity, clambering into the tall carriage independently – with considerable lack thereof, hoisting her skirts in a most unseemly fashion. Mai gives a long-suffering grin as Anzu then settles into the compartment, straightening her back and smoothing her dress, looking for all the world as though she scaled the threshold with grace. Still smiling, Mai takes up the reins. "You'll have compliments galore – sincere, ardent or what you will – when I show you in public at Yugi's ball," she says, steering the horses in the direction of the city centre.

Anzu scowls, prettily. "Who wants anything ardent from strangers? _Your _compliments are the only ones I'm concerned with. And if voiced, I know they're sincere." A flicker of eyebrows, obdurately raised, greet Mai as she glances sidelong at her companion.

Mai tosses the reins, with a wry sniff. "It probably wasn't smart to teach you the difference between authenticity and veneer," she remarks. She rather misses the old, artless Anzu – and wonders from whence this arch, coquettish model sprang. Surely not her own tuition.

A few minutes into the drive, and all is – comparatively – well, however. Anzu ceases speaking with such precision, reverting back to her old, clumsy, insightful ways, with only the vaguest stirrings of impishness that Mai finds compelling rather than unsettling. They converse easily, with dialogue that amounts to scatterings of charming frippery – though, of course, Anzu's words, even when related to the lightest of subjects have their import. How one can be so casual, and yet speak with such weight, Mai shall never be able to fathom, but there is a marked seriousness to the majority of her utterances. Her earnestness is truly beyond compare – and yet, for all that, fragile. Mai cannot bear to see it marred, even by alluringly knowledgeable levity.

... But enough of this. These are nothing-_thoughts. _

They make their placid way through the streets, the steep-walled buildings reduced to moderate, greying blurs and the varied shadows of figures melting into anonymity through the filter of London's idiosyncratic mist. Anzu has fallen silent for a spell, distractedly observing the scenes flitting past them with considerable interest. She rests her head carefully against the brocade of the curtain, gaze directed a little ways past the glass. "Never seen stuff at this speed," she mutters, and gives a soft laugh. "Could say that about a lot of things." Mai gives a half-hearted murmur of assent.

Soon afterwards, they approach their destination. The soft clattering of horseshoes slows to a trickle, and halts. Mai knows that she should not expect awe, as they descend from the carriage, but somehow anticipates it nonetheless; she has grown so accustomed to Anzu's wonder at every vaguely extraordinary sight confronting her that she has come to expect nothing else. And, unrealistic though her hopes are, she is rarely – if at all – disappointed; and, indeed, this time is no exception, for Anzu's face seems to open like a fresh, glistening flower as they step outside. Those looks shall never cease to be fascinating – and whilst many things may alter, the rippling modulations of her charge's face will be endlessly varied and uniformly striking. Mai allows a shadow of a smile.

They have stopped at the foot of a wide, white building, ornately wrought in smooth, pale stone that is accentuated by clean sweeps of terra cotta – and dusted with the odd spray of scaffolding amidst its topmost domes and cloud-hued spires. As they approach the entrance, grandly encompassed by its bronze-framed archway, Anzu, unaccustomed to the carriage's swaying speed and still giddy, teeters where she treads. Mai moves as if to steady her, but refrains a moment after the impulse occurs. Better to keep a judicious distance at times. Allow her the chance to right herself before intervention – and naturally, she does.

"This is..." says Anzu, wonderingly. She must have seen the building – if only at a glimpse from afar – but never entered.

"The Yugi and Mai Museum," nods Mai. "Formerly the South Kensington – now renamed, rebuilt and renovated. Soon to be opened to the public; undergoing construction. Closed for now – but open to visitors of a special status."

Anzu brightens further at the prospect of exploring. "We count, right?"

"I should say so."

They drift in through the wide doors, to be greeted by a spacious entrance hall drowned in partial gloom. Yet, glancing upwards, it is possibly to discern a colossal, intricate chandelier, wreathed in gold and peppered with crystalline droplets of glass, containing a handful of candles, half-lit. A scattering of attendants bustle in the background, adjusting the contents of various display cases, or tinkering with the descriptions to each exhibit.

Mai almost jumps when Anzu tucks her hand gently into the crook of her arm. "Show me everything," her protégée insists, brightly; expectantly. "Lead the way."

Mai can see no reason not to comply. They make their way steadily through each new exhibit, beginning somewhere around Bronze Age Mesopotamia, weaving their way through the Wars of Kemetic Ascendance and ending round about the American Uprising. Along the way, there are various relics of British history: evidence of the scarring left by numerous civil wars; pieces left behind after countless conflicts, as remembrance of imperial wounds. _History, _Mai reminds herself, _is inherently barbarous, and blood-streaked by necessity._ And how delightfully diverting, to track Albion's rise from the moment it was no more than England, and scarcely that – fragmented, harrowed, conquered – to its acquisition and consolidation of the American colonies... to trace its zenith, concurrent to that of steam, and steel, and coal. _And KaibaCorp. _

Along the way, they drift past displays on the development of steam technology, complete with chunks of mechanical innards from the very earliest airship models. These document the invention of the steam technique a century before and its refinement to support flight under Gozoburo Kaiba and his team, scarcely decades ago. The first contraptions devised were fragile, spindly things which, now immortalised in framed scale drawings and the odd blurry photo, look scarcely heavier than birds. Precarious and fault-prone, they were nonetheless the vehicle of England's first forays in flight. Eventually, these give way to the sleek, bulky designs of Seto Kaiba: the mirror images of those with which today's skies are positively strewn. Mai cannot help but feel a flare of pride at the sight, which quickly floods her chest, lending warmth to the echoing surroundings.

For Albion has flown so very far.

It is when Anzu makes a detour, skirting past the Glass Room – a pity, for Mai had been looking forward to leading her past rows on rows of iridescent treasures, and watching her face reflect their gleam in delight – in favour of the series of chambers labelled 'History of Kemet', that the spell breaks. Somehow, it had been all too easy to wreath oneself in the illusion that Albion had flourished in isolation – and the abrupt reminder that this is not the case shakes Mai to the core.

Presumably, she reveals as much to her companion by a vague tremor in her step, and a flinch that she had rather hoped would be imperceptible. Evidently not, for Anzu frowns, and a few moments later the frown deepens as their footsteps slow.

What?" Anzu asks, perfectly disingenuously. Then, cue confirmation from Mai's steely glance, she adds – in a tone markedly grimmer: "You can't erase them from consideration, you know."

Mai rolls her eyes; for a second, they are flinty and defensive. "And yet, I can damn well try..." she mutters. This visit is supposed to be _respite, _not another clumsily wadded piece of political sanctimony, thrown haphazardly at her feet. She had been anticipating a holiday from all that.

Anzu makes a sound perilously close to _tsk, _tightens her grip on her Mai's arm and shepherds her into the Kemetic exhibit. Mai succumbs with something of a martyred air that one could not even term ironic.

The display is not even all that detailed, for crying out loud. She is doing this to prove a point.

Much of Mai's indignation dissolves in study of Anzu's steady tread around various dulled coins and pottery shards: that walk that she has often light-heartedly termed 'the museum shuffle'. Her protégée shows such gentle fascination that she can hardly stand to observe without quelling a wince, or perhaps a crooked smile.

This was only natural. Only logical. And yet. How Mai would dearly love to throw all diplomacy aside and simply _forget _Kemet.

She feels a glimmer of pain spread about her throat, and disperse. The old tension. It often flits in and out of existence – a clenching scrape across her throat – before vanishing for months at a time. The invisible mark of a strained existence: harmless, and bearable enough to be borne, doctors have assured her. She forces herself into relaxation and the pressure eases temporarily.

She ghosts a hand across the area with the air of one crossing oneself, before gliding across the room to join her companion, clattering footsteps and all.

Anzu is skimming across a display on the Egyptian economy, glancing at a colourful diagram of its agricultural production. She seems so thoroughly unabashed. Even her frown of concentration is shallow; the depths of her face represent modulating thought, and customary cheer, and overall contentment.

Well. The contrast between them is hardly favourable. Nonetheless, Mai feels the faint stirrings of inexplicable pride.

Somehow, the dim, encompassing shroud of this silent museum seems all at once unfitting; the atmosphere chimes out of tune with its observers. Mai is unsure of what she hoped to achieve through this impulsive outing. To overwhelm Anzu, perhaps. To awe her with a show of Albian grandeur, as though she were some distant Ambassador from a foreign land, alive to every wonder: as though attempting to re-accustom her to a culture she has all but breathed since birth. All too late, she is confronted with the realisation that this is ineffectual.

"All right; done that," she announces, over Anzu's shoulder. "Let's make ourselves scarce. Sunlight beckons."

She is reasonably certain it was beginning to rain when they left.

Anzu submits with a handful of murmured protestations, allowing herself to be guided through the vast hallways and out through the atrium exit.

An idea strikes. "Coming by carriage was silly," says Mai, ruefully. "Call it nostalgia. Let's ditch the horses back at the palace." This entire venture now strikes her as a tad ridiculous.

Instead, an hour or so later, they are bundled into Mai's crimson, four-seated airship, gaining altitude in a hasty upward swoop. _This _is so much better, freer. They brush past several gauzy curtains of clouds before sinking a little below. Now all of London is sprawled before them in the miniature. _This is part of England-Britain-Albion; let me _show _you. _Earlier, Anzu peered at relics through a pane of glass; now she sees the Tower's spire; the thick, blue cord of the Thames; earth pitted with houses; the greenfly-specks of other aircraft, both above and below. She sees life, and all that Mai has to take pride in through a polished window.

_This is what I was trying to say._

"Darling," says Mai, in a confiding hiss of breath, once the airship is level and speeding, "There's something I feel you should know."

**xXx**

When Miss Mazaki stumbles back into her room in the evening, with an air so distracted that, when she attempts to fling herself onto her bed once more, she almost misses (cue more ominous noises from the curtains), Charlotte takes only a moment to connect the requisite dots.

Misty-eyed demeanour. Lack of awareness towards immediate surroundings. Sighing nineteen to the dozen at nothing in particular.

This is obvious.

Having ascertained that her young mistress is almost certainly in the throes of first love over some young man, Charlotte follows the only sensible course of action. Namely: to provide camomile tea, shortbread biscuits, quiet sympathy and an opportunity to talk that is unambiguously refused by abstracted silence.

Well, not quite. "_Dash it all," _she hears Miss Mazaki mutter under her breath, quite vehemently, at one point.

By all counts, it must be a romance. Nothing else could elicit quite such intensity of feeling.

Miss Mazaki attempts to pulverise a pillow.

Charlotte sighs, briskly, and surreptitiously scours the room for any appropriate Austen novels with which to placate her. Finding none, she settles for helping her mistress out of her bodice.

Anzu, for her part, still struggles to process the knowledge imparted to her hours previously, whilst skimming London's skies, the land like a detailed map made vivid. Beyond the city, just discernable – a viridian lattice of farmland, partitioned into neat segments. The earth, quantifiably conquered. And the air. Just the ship, and the whistling air, and the King's Regent: with playful eyes, and a darting smile.

_There's something I feel you should know. What with your utopian political leanings. This is never to be spoken of again – and that includes telling the King, do you hear? Yes, I am perfectly aware that amounts to treason. There's a reason for that - Yugi isn't alive to this kind of thinking yet. You, however, will understand, and perhaps approve. _

_M-Mai...?_

_During the outbreak of the Prussian rebellion, I sent Albian weapons to aid the rebels. In other words – we funded the liberation movement; petulant farmers and all. Darling, your face...! You understand, of course, that I did it because of you? Because of what you said? Frankly, because - much as I hate to seem so capricious – you swayed my opinion._

_You – you helped the Prussians gain their freedom?_

_Attempted to; the venture did not meet with much success, if you'll remember. As we speak, the rebels are being punished for their disloyalty; their fates are a matter for the Kemetic Guard now, I'm afraid. But I tried, sweeting – at your instigation._

At the time, Anzu felt stricken by sudden motion sickness, and wanted nothing more than to beg Mai to steer them to solid ground – but physically bit her tongue, knowing she would regret presenting her with _that _particular victory as soon as it had been granted.

Maddening. Simply maddening.

Anzu balls up her fists underneath her pillow, clenching vehemently at the bedspread. Clenching her teeth, too, to calm her eyes. Oh, this was a masterstroke. This was Mai's reassertion of her own dominance, all packaged up in a progressive guise. This was Mai playing chess with empire – sacrificing a rook to keep one wayward pawn in check. The motivation of that little _tete-a-tete _was certainly to keep Anzu in her place; to show her, should she put a toe out of line, the consequences would resound with all the alacrity of an avalanche. Anzu is under no illusions. This was intended to teach her a lesson. To help her catch a glimpse of the vast network of webs comprising the world of top-tier politics, all from the mouth of the spider herself: plots, and counter-plots, and _revenge, _delivered with sweetness of tone, and lightness of gaze.

She stifles a sob. She feels exactly as she was meant to: wholly out of place, and floundering. Mai wished her to feel responsible for the failure of the rebellion; to feel the weight of a treasonous secret against her own monarch, and the responsibility of a thousand deaths. This was Mai's message: _can you handle it? Of course you can't. So just sit pretty, and let me ensnare Kemet on my own. _After taking one, tentative step into Mai's hidden world, she was promptly crushed under the consequences of her actions.

Many floors above, unbeknownst to her protégée, Mai presses a hand to her face and sighs, faintly. This was cruelty for the sake of kindness, and necessary. That dash of insincerity whilst soaring above London was, with any luck, sufficient to quell the murmurings of the conscience she has adopted. The Prussian debacle may be beneficial, then, in at least one respect.

She regrets the crude means. Yet she will apologise, soon.

Later.

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- Mai suffers from **_**globus hystericus, **_**which is a stress-induced ailment that causes the throat to tighten. It's not dangerous, but it can cause frequent discomfort.**

**- Edward Cardwell, in reality, was never anything more prominent than Secretary of State for War. All hail alternate history. Across his career, he was both a Peelite and a Liberal. **


	19. Chapter 19

_**Previously, on Puella Magi Mai-doka Magica... **_

**Anzu and Mai go on an outing, in which Mai attempts a little cultural indoctrination, and fails quite abysmally. Later, Mai informs Anzu that she sent aid to the Prussian rebels – and, furthermore, lies to her about her motives, saying that she was influenced by Anzu's outspoken championship of Prussian independence. This done in order to scare Anzu away from politics. Anzu is left bewildered and infuriated. **

**But, for the moment, we'll have to leave her to it. Time to return to Ishizu and Mana, who have really been left hanging for an unforgiveable amount of time. **

**xXx**

They have not spoken since that brief return through London's shroud, sifting through desolate streets in the fog until lighting upon their own, and filling the soundless hallways with footsteps and the fumbling of candlesticks. They even take a seat together in tandem, but do not speak; the same tacit expectation dictating that there is much to tell, but that etiquette demands that they are to allow the space for silence before uglier topics lurch their way in to fill the gap.

As impulse commands, they stare mute into inky folds of darkness, where the soft edge of the living room and its tasselled, porcelain contents decline into obscurity.

In an instant, something breaks. Ishizu gives a hollow gasp. Mana freezes. Ishizu stifles it almost as soon as the silence is breached, but a second too late, and flings her arms around Mana's neck, sinking a head against her narrow shoulder. It is as though she has lost some inner frame or central totem of calm, and now disintegrates foundationless into a wreckage of sobs. No tears fall – or none that Mana can feel – but the dry, muffled breaths of frustration permeate the dusty air. Mana can scarcely bear it. Over an acquaintanceship of close to a decade, she has never witnessed Ishizu cry – even when suffering some childish injury, or worse, at her father's death. And now the very act seems half broken and incomplete, as though she gleaned knowledge of the process through hearsay and cannot piece the concept together in her mind, much less follow it through with the requisite motions. It feels hideous, shameful, witnessed quite by accident; an introverted response to which no outsider should be privy.

"I knew it couldn't ever amount to anything. Not with the deceit that's been killing me, and all the overblown stories... oh, it was bound to fail. I am so, so sorry Mana," she all but whispers, without so much as raising her head, or loosening her hold.

"But I –" begins Mana, in protest. _Betrayed you. Sabotaged you. _

"You had every right," says Ishizu – and the melody is fast returning to her voice, which had been half choked by hush and sobs.

Mana feels idiotic, sympathetic tears well up, and returns the embrace as fiercely as she can in order to quell them. "I did not," she murmurs. "I would never..." An almost soothing refrain.

Creaking footsteps draw closer, and the door swings aside. Both women loosen their hold and glance upwards. It is Atem, showing regal through the gloom, like a twist of burnished gold in blackened dust.

"You too?" remarks Ishizu, with a wry grin, and a rush of the old banter. "Come on in. I was about to tell Mana something, and it seems only fitting that you should also hear."

Perplexed, Atem enters, presumably taking note of their tearstained appearance and tactfully neglecting to show any signs of doing so.

"First of all, I must beg your forgiveness," begins Ishizu, alarmingly.

Atem blinks. "Granted," he says, as a matter of course.

"No you do _not," _says Mana, reaching for Ishizu's hand. "That's ridiculous – I was an idiot."

"Thank you," replies Ishizu, quietly. "But you might want to reserve judgement. Mana, you are aware that, six years ago, my father was murdered by an agent of Revealing Light. Since, we have worked assiduously to mitigate their impact on the Kemetic people. You may also know that, during the same attack, official reports state that my brother was also murdered."

Mana nods, sharply. Of course she recalls Ishizu's grief: dull, understated, and all but smoothed underneath her all-pervasive sense of duty. Within weeks of the event, she had returned to public life, undertaking services to the Pharaoh as rigorous as any she had shouldered before. For the life of her, Mana cannot fathom whether it was strength, or obduracy. If the former, there was something about its fortitude which made her uneasy. Not that she doubted Ishizu's affection for her family. Only that she was unnerved by the ability to hide such a relentless capacity to feel.

"In short: I do not believe that this was the case. There were no signs of struggle in his room; no evidence of a second murder. The organisation had nothing to gain by killing him quietly; unobtrusiveness is anathema to a terrorist group. I believe that my brother was abducted, possibly forced to aid the group – or, who knows, seized to further some long-term plan. Regardless of the intention – I do not think that Marik is dead. And thus, I have been searching for an entry into Revealing Light."

Mana shudders. "Why now?" she inquires; a reverential whisper punctuating the text of all that has been revealed.

"Simple. In Kemet, I am known, and it would take more than a woollen cloak to disguise my features. I could easily be recognised for who I am – and so close to Mahaado, the risk would be too great. I would not take it in good faith; not when I might have dishonoured the throne. And so – I waited. When I was granted the title of Ambassador, I saw the opportunity and seized it."

Mana flinches, taken aback, but ventures no comment. Only Ishizu would colour her own valour as dereliction of duty.

"For weeks now, I have been courting members of the London cell of Revealing Light in the guise of an impoverished Kemetic immigrant. It took an awful while to find them, and even longer to gain their trust, but I had the weapon used to kill my father as evidence for my supposed participation in his murder, and although it is an outdated method on the part of the party, it proved convincing. That said, for a terrorist group their way of operating is surprisingly open – and, for a while, my contacts welcomed me. God, I left the dagger in the tavern, even. No matter. I had planned to enter the heart of the organisation and sound out exactly what had happened to my brother. If he could not be returned – if he is dead – I planned to kill their leader, Dark Necrofear, and eradicate this brutal movement once and for all." She shudders. "I know. That is foolish and melodramatic. One does not kill a dandelion by lopping off its head and leaving the roots untouched. And yet, I had hoped..."

"Ishizu." Mana arrests these conjectures with a short, blunt swipe of the hand.

"No, I _know,_" says Ishizu, with weight. "I'm a self-aggrandising fool, and Marik is dead. The Kemetic state cannot afford to lose its English Ambassador, and regardless, there is little sense in putting myself at risk for the purposes of an altogether fruitless venture." Fact after fact drops with terrifying fatalism.

Mana shakes her head. "I was only going to say – I'll help, whatever happens."

"No." Atem cuts in brusquely at this. "Ishizu is correct. This is dangerous; too uncertain. We need to focus on establishing this treaty. All else is peripheral." His gaze cuts with its very rigidity of purpose. Mana thinks of flint, and ice, and unforgiveable lack of sensitivity. "I'm sorry, but we have no time for this."

Mana expects Ishizu to fix him with a glare of matching intensity, and remark upon Atem's own tribulations with regards to the subject of siblings. Certainly she herself is tempted to leap in with a comment of a similar stripe. Ishizu, however, refrains. Instead, she nods, and it is almost like a spasm, whispering: "Back to work. Yes, back to work for all of us."

**xXx**

King Yugi trails his fingers through the water of Buckingham Palace's westernmost ornamental pond, inhaling sharply at the biting cold and laughing at the tickle of a koi carp's whiskers. The gardens are peaceful: though spring has arrived early, after an uncharacteristically mild winter, its soft warmth is offset by a chill breeze, which has chased all other regular visitors indoors. The sky is a pale, glazed blue, and the only sound is the steady trickle of water and the occasional rustle of a solitary willow, planted so as to weep mournfully into the pond.

"No," Yugi says to thin air, with vehemence, "I am _not_ joining you."

The willow gives an almighty shudder, and a handful of leaves cascade into Yugi's hair. He scowls, shaking his head violently, and several pieces of offending greenery fly into the pond. The carp makes an irritable retreat, and hides in the shadows beneath a decorative fountain.

"Come _on_, Yug," pleads Jonouchi, dangling somewhere in the branches above the king's head. "We'll give you a hand up." He pauses to regain his balance, having somehow managed to contort himself so as to be hanging upside down, supported by his knees. "See? I've got both spare!"

The willow sways ominously.

"I think I prefer solid ground," replies Yugi, and his tone is sufficiently amused that Jou deems it safe to grab a second handful of leaves. Honda, precariously positioned a few branches above him, delicately pokes him in the stomach. "Besides, I'm too short. I can't reach."

In a flurry of inventive curses, wild eyes and flailing hands, Jou plummets to the ground. The resultant crash causes several small birds to vacate the area.

"I think Jonouchi prefers it, too," says Honda, innocently. In response, he is given a look so dirty that even Yugi, still rather irked over the molestation of his hair, cannot fail to grin. When Honda arrived at the palace, Yugi had noticed some tension between him and Jonouchi, but it had faded quickly enough that he had never felt comfortable pressing either of them to talk to him about it. Now, it is barely noticeable, its only trace evident in their continual bickering, which is rarely as malicious as it first appears, and never seems to lead to arguments so vitriolic that they are not forgotten within five minutes of their next conversation.

Carefully picking a catkin out of his fringe, Yugi frowns. "Must I order you to stop throwing each other out of trees?" His expression falters as he attempts to suppress a laugh. "Don't pout, Jou."

For once, his guard ignores his orders, expression set firmly in a winsome glower. "You're no fun anymore. You're always at meetings when we could be playing cards, appearing in ceremonies when we could be on the tennis courts-"

Yugi, never the most athletically gifted, makes a faint noise of protest, and Honda quickly chips in before the line of conversation can devolve into teasing the king about his uncanny knack for failing at every conceivable sport. "-Attending to matters of royal importance when you could be indulging in Jou's every whim; signing peace treaties with the admittedly attractive Kemetic high priestess whilst Shizuka Jonouchi, prized beauty of Albion, is being left to wallow in despair at her fate…" Not that Honda is above derailing conversations for his own purposes.

With an impassioned battle cry that sounds somewhat like "YAAARGH!", Jonouichi leaps into the air, clawing at Honda's boots. Honda, having (in a remarkable display of foresight rather fitting for a king's guard) climbed several feet out of reach, grins. To Yugi, he adds: "It's all rather a waste, in my opinion."

Rather mystified by this, but doubting his ability to worm an answer out of an enraged Jou, Yugi directs his next question upwards. "What about Shizuka?"

His doubts were ill-founded, for Jou, still scrabbling at the willow, snarls a reply. "Her marriage - _you_ _bastard!_"

Yugi distinctly hopes that the last part was not aimed at him.

In response, Honda only smirks, tossing a twig in the general direction of Jou's head. Evidently, this makes Jou realises the futility of his efforts, because he sinks to the ground dramatically, fixing Yugi with a beseeching gaze somewhat similar to that of a labrador puppy. "My sister," he says, throwing himself against the tree (mostly to punctuate the statement, and possibly also to attempt to jostle Honda), "is engaged."

"I know," says Yugi, mildly. Honda snickers.

"Engaged," Jou elaborates, "to the greatest waste of breath, space and- and _nutrition _in Europe!"

"He probably doesn't know what that word means," comments Honda, and receives another glare for his contribution. "But, yes, I've seen her portrait, and it's appalling that such a radiant angel could fall into the clutches of that scoundrel." Yugi is not entirely certain whether this display of devotion towards the Jonouchi family is the product of melodrama or a desire to make Jou fume. In either case, it is working.

"But," Yugi interrupts, mildly confused, "doesn't she love him?"

"Love," says Jou, with an air of resignation, "may be a minor factor."

"A trifling matter," adds Honda, sniffing.

Subject thus dismissed, the two return to bickering and flinging leaves at each other, and the King is left to silently ponder, irrespective of the odd piece of foliage lodged in his immaculately styled hair.

**xXx**

Ryou is frightened to touch Paris, lest it shatter.

Marik has conjured up fragile, illusory images in the air: twisted the candy-spun spires of Notre Dame; strewn buttons as cobblestones on the Diabound floor – _"stones habitually torn up and tossed; an underfoot weapon for the underprivileged"; _he has thrown tongues of fire and fragments of light to form the shimmering dialogue of a thousand pantomime players, elsewhere known as citizens. As such, Ryou cannot help but see it as insubstantial – even fictitious. Yes, he most certainly does not believe in Paris.

He scarcely expects this vibrant, _breathing _setting – a city of blood and spirit, not dust and air. Stepping outside of the Diabound, where they have parked in a teeming market square, he expects to be greeted by a spindly, breakable dollhouse of an area; the contrast between his expectations and this all-too-solid reality is breathtaking. As the ship's hatch swings wide, a burst of cool air shatters over their faces, carrying intoxicating mingled scents of perfume, baking, flowers – and an acrid undercurrent of sewage. Its pungency is like a physical blow. The next hit comes from the _colours:_ muted gold, and subtle indigo; buildings flushed with a crimson sheen; the kaleidoscopic maelstrom of suits, gowns and rags -all glossed with pale sunlight, and seemingly designed for the purpose of offsetting a flag of red, white and blue. The all-pervasive clatter of horse-drawn carriages, plus the dull purr of low-flying airships harmonises with the crowd to form a wave of sound, almost as tall as the elaborate architecture surrounding them. And the airships! Ryou thinks he has never seen anything grander: these are hulking behemoths of the sky, drenched in crisp paint and intricate metalwork, bursting through the air at speeds he never thought possible.

Ryou reels as though drunk. He even stumbles a little on his way down the stairs. Bakura catches him with a ready arm, and an even readier smirk.

"Impressed, are you, wretch?" he drawls, helping Ryou find his feet again.

"It's _extraordinary," _Ryou breathes.

Marik emerges from the entryway, clad in the most preposterously ostentatious combination of bright, velveteen garments ever devised. And _grins. _"Ah, my home away from home! If I belong to a single nationality at all, I am French."

"You're a faithless renegade," Bakura reminds him. "I doubt any nation would be happy to adopt such a blackguard." Ryou giggles absentmindedly at that, eyes still flickering from each transient sight to the next, as though detailing an invisible map.

"Ah, but Bakura!" protests Marik, descending to pat him charmingly on the shoulder. His hands are sheathed in red suede gloves. At his wrists gleam sapphires. "Alas, you do not know Paris!"

A few days later, and Ryou is glad to say that he is indeed beginning to know Paris. Not quite so intimately as his star-struck companion, perhaps – Marik combines his delicate, ethereal _ideal _of Paris with a fervent passion that somehow seeps into reality – but well enough to recover after the initial bout of awe in order to appreciate the finer details of the city.

He has never known an area as insistently _alive _as this place. Alive with a packed, enthusiastic resonance; tempered by cool refinement, and that ubiquitous strand of sensuality typical to every movement or utterance of its ever-varying populace. All remaining traces of unease that might have otherwise clung to his interactions with the thieves have been chased away by the incessant drum of slippered feet and horses' hooves on the sleek pavements, and drowned in the glistening, steely waters of the Seine. If anything, strife has pulled them closer; Ryou feels a web as intricate as the brickwork of the Church of Saint-Nicholas-des-Champs emerge around the three of them, composed of tiny yet durable bonds, the likes of which he had never hoped to experience. Every comment, every gesture of the thieves' seems to pull them closer; Ryou has learned to read each trivial idiosyncrasy like the spidery Kemetic characters he is on the brink of mastering.

Paris suits them, in all its flamboyance and flair. Marik and Bakura's taste for the melodramatic is indulged almost as shamelessly as their appetites – for, indeed, when they are not involved in some quixotic venture of the legally dubious, they are more often than not to be found frequenting some elegant patisserie or other, purchasing enough pastel-hued _macarons _and sugar-glazed _beignets _to make a king blush for shame. Or, conversely, to whip any enterprising baker into a flurry of glee at the prospect of such excessive patronage. Thus, comments Marik, one may identify a serious conflict of interest between monarch and capitalist that would be worth pursuing further had he not been fed into a stupor.

"Ah, I feel as heedless as Faustus here!" he remarks, with gusto. "_A surfeit of deadly sin hath damned _my admittedly somewhat precarious soul." He stretches with sleepy, catlike grace, settling back contentedly to lie against the wicker chair, soaking up the gentle sunlight.

Bakura snorts. "A surfeit of pastry hath damned your stomach, at any rate."

"Ever the boorish materialist, my dear." Marik licks a stray speck of demerara sugar from the tip of his finger.

Ryou giggles, softly, pushing the jam-glistening remnants of a croissant to the side of his plate. "You're mixing up appetite with the spiritual," he informs Marik, with quiet relish. "Wasn't that Faustus' mistake to begin with?"

At which point, Marik dissolves into shocked peals of appreciative laughter, and Bakura admonishes his partner for subjecting the wretch to a surfeit of _goddamn Marlowe. _

This moment could easily pass as a distilled impression of those first few days; a carnivalesque extravaganza of languor and wit, condensed into a brief careen down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and warm, sprawled hours over coffee in crystal glasses.

Of course, they have been careful. Inordinately careful. Every night, they sleep aboard the Diabound, with Marik and Bakura's bedroom door bolted firmly shut, and Ryou's locked equally tight. Marik has 'transformed' only once, during which the lights remained extinguished throughout the night, and the muffled hum of voices could be heard emerging from the hallway. Ryou is not sure how Bakura deals with it. He is not sure he _wants _to know how. Yet, he is grateful for this new wave of honesty; he was informed of the event the morning after it occurred, and greeted shakily by a pale yet resolute Marik in time for an early breakfast.

He does not feel ready to share in the responsibility, but is content enough to share in the knowledge.

The most recent attack is testament to how seemingly random Marik's transformations are. Here in France, he could not be happier: sanguine, sociable and thoroughly ecstatic, yet the outbreaks follow no discernable pattern with regards to his behaviour or moods.

He has, however, found in France what he sorely lacked elsewhere: a narrow skein of political activism. He drags his companions to countless cafes, in which doe-eyed students and poets in fraying finery appear to congregate and, as Bakura puts it, pontificate. They find themselves frequenting numerous societies – all of which seem to have aspirations to the classification 'underground', yet are uniformly located in back rooms of crowded taverns, and front rooms of coffee houses. All, almost as if by regulation, are named after some variation on _Les Amis du People, Fraternitie, Les Jacobins Neuveux, _or something equally determined to convey, above all, a sense of companionship. As far as Ryou can tell, the classic itinerary for each of these societies is to imbibe as much liquid as is possible – be it coffee or alcohol, depending on the setting – and, in between lazy discussion of the latest plays in the theatre, and tongue-in-cheek banter over the merits of various young grisettes, debate every point of principle that they can find it in them to broach. Discussions are lively, raucous, and wholly academic. Ryou marvels at how the most slender of differences in opinion can be pried at and widened to the most schismatic of proportions – culminating ultimately in a yawning rift between the most indistinguishable of splinter groups. He wonders that they do not all find a living in splitting hairs, given their exemplar skill with regards to the splitting of factions.

"Worse still," remarks Bakura, nursing his empty coffee cup in a lazy attempt to capture the last traces of warmth, "is that this is what they are like in peaceful circumstances. Imagine what the arguments would be like if they were ever to actually gain power! France would grind to a halt within days."

Marik insists that the disputes are entirely relevant – and that, furthermore, it is far preferable to air grievances now, in peacetime under a bourgeois government, than during the aftermath of revolution, where unity of purpose is of the utmost necessity.

Vague stirrings of discontent are to be observed amongst his newfound companions whenever he mentions words such as 'bourgeois', or 'revolution'. Ryou learns that the majority of these societies would categorise themselves as 'radical liberal' – which is apparently to say: _whilst we appreciate your fervour, citoyen, we fail to see how your prediction of the coming crisis in world capitalism is particularly relevant to our reading of J.. _

"He's better than them," Bakura once mutters, furiously. "Which is to say, he's more deluded. He actually believes in all that claptrap."

Ideological disparities aside, Marik is in his element. Ryou observes him captivate each waiting audience with oratorical finesse, transporting them into the heady realms of utopian fantasy with ever-varying arguments that paint the most dazzling pictures in the air, glistening with the bright, intoxicating hues of _liberte, egalite, fraternite _and the tricolour. He sculpts barricades out of the heaviest words, drizzled with the grapeshot and cannon smoke of light, incendiary rhetoric – all of which leaves listeners pinned to their seats. Woe betide any weak-willed moderate who dares contradict him, for he will find himself summarily humiliated by rapid-fire witticism from this fiery Kemetic newcomer.

Ryou and Bakura tend to sit at the very edge of the group, amused enough to watch. Occasionally, Bakura bridles at a comment made by 'one of those velvet-clad hypocrites', but his biting responses are voiced to Ryou alone. One suspects he is exercising a modicum of control for his partner's sake. Ryou knows him well enough to realise he will not begrudge Marik of happiness where he finds it.

Control may only be stretched so far. One night, at the classic haunt of the neo-Jacobin group, _Sans-culotte, _during a particularly sanctimonious speech of Marik's, Bakura snaps.

"How is it," he says, standing, "that you think you've got the right to speak on the behalf of the – to coin a tired classification – oppressed? Any of you? I've been dragged to hundreds of these little gatherings now, all filled with fools in elegant frock coats, uniformly graced with tidy sums from their wealthy parents, and leave to squander three years at university - dedicating themselves to the scribbling of sentimental verse. Have any of you ever gone hungry in your lives? Suffered – properly, I mean? Seen family members slaughtered? Have you ever had to even fend for yourselves once in a while? You go into prettily phrased raptures over the plight of proverbial working man; have you any idea what it's like to _be _him? To be 'oppressed' yourselves?"

Silence filters uneasily through the cafe.

Marik disperses it.

"No, I don't know what it's like," he responds, coolly. There is a short, predatory pause, during which Bakura opens his mouth to speak. Smoothly, he cuts back in. "And nor do I want to."

His friends blink, somewhat punch-drunk.

"And furthermore," he says, volume increasing slightly in anticipation of further interruption, "Nor do I want anyone else to know. By all rights, no-one ought to experience anything similar. I'll settle for nothing less than a world in which no-one could even begin to fathom what that was like. I want suffering to be nothing less than a fading memory; poverty no more than an archaic piece of ancient terminology. I want generation upon generation brought up in total equality, kept entirely ignorant of the notion that life might be anything other than scrupulously fair; or that resources might be anything less than plentiful; or that anyone could be out for their own gain above all else. I want the deeds and the memory of Mai Kujaku, Pharaoh Mahaado, Seto Kaiba and the like struck down from the records as history's joke, and duly obliterated from memory. I want a world innocent of wrong; unaccustomed to despair, and oblivious to their own lack of knowledge. A time in which children will laugh at the absurdity of any suggestion that selfishness was once encouraged, and enmity revered. In short – you think I'm naive to have known nothing but extravagance? Well, I'll never rest until I see the whole world as ignorant as myself." With this, Marik takes a concluding swig of coffee, and fixes his partner with a look so firm as to border on steely.

Bakura graces him with the most peculiar expression, as though he is unsure as to whether he just bit into a lemon, or was just punched in the face, and opted to give a response incorporating elements of both. And then blinks. Many, many times.

If Ryou is not entirely mistaken, Bakura has been rendered speechless.

On the way back to the ship, the effect is ruined somewhat when Marik stops to coo over a pair of filigree cufflinks in a shop window for all of ten minutes. Nonetheless, Ryou judges it to be a point well made.

**xXx**

The Duke of Wellington's dining room is a modern affair, a great brick monstrosity composed of a single room fixed like a limpet to the east side of his Georgian home. The architect, as whimsical as he was skilled, provided a flat roof, sheltered from the rain by the tiles of the main house, a storey above, and also by a twist of the British weather – perpetually due west. Thus, Pegasus has seen fit to furnish the space, and Seto Kaiba finds himself sat on a white wrought-iron chair, its elegant floral design detailed so as to give the impression that it has sprung from the stone of the roof itself, or perhaps the plaster below.

Pegasus, similarly seated across the broad and equally intricate table, grins like a Cheshire cat. "I trust refreshments are to your liking, Mr Kaiba?" he positively simpers - ever the picture of the well-mannered host.

Kaiba pointedly quirks an eyebrow at the forlorn plate of scones on the centre of the table, left untouched on his side, and rapidly diminishing on Pegasus'. He takes a sip of lemonade, and a small insect careens past his nose, oblivious to the tension that stifles the scene, as cloying and viscous as honey. Pegasus has planted a garden here, lovingly tended to in terracotta pots, and each flower's pungent aroma thickens the air further. Kaiba does despise the outdoors.

However, as a man with little time on his hands in which to admire rooftop horticulture, Kaiba refuses to tolerate Pegasus' fancy any longer.

"Your grace, I feel as there must be some point to this meeting." He enunciates every word as crisply as possible, conveying maximum disdain without ever allowing the illusion of civility to falter. "Surely you did not invite me here for small talk?" No, the world may tear itself to pieces around him, dissolving further into the irrational with each fleeting, azure minute, but Kaiba will never feel anything but intense loathing for Maximilien Pegasus.

Pegasus – Sophia damn the man – giggles. "Yes," he muses, "I suppose such petty frivolities as blueberry scones are beneath the great Seto Kaiba." His expression returns from distant amusement to indulgent condescension. "Very well: to business!"

Upon showing Kaiba into his house, Pegasus had stopped to pick up a letter knife (chiding Kaiba for his paranoia the moment he saw him spare it a second glance) and a brown envelope. Now, the envelope is neatly slit open, revealing an intriguing assortment of photographs, letters, newspaper clippings and airship designs. His Grace blinks innocently, widening one blue eye. "You had not thought I had forgotten about my airship, Mr Kaiba?"

"No," Kaiba replies, not pausing to peer at the documents, "I had not."

Pegasus sighs, deep and emphatic, as though Kaiba's scorn is a microcosm of all the evils of the modern world. "Well, it has certainly progressed. A working model has been built in a workshop in France." He proffers a photograph. "I am loath to disclose its exact whereabouts – understandable, I am sure, in my unenviable position – but I have allowed one man to inspect my ship. From a distance, naturally." Pegasus' eyes veritably gleam as he pushes a letter into Kaiba's outstretched hand, along with the photograph.

Kaiba gives each a cursory glance, wary of being inundated with such an excess of paper. Clearly, Pegasus wishes to prove the veracity of his own claims beyond a shadow of doubt. On closer examination, the letter is a glowing account of the intellect and ingenuity of the Duke of Wellington, and an enquiry as to whether his airship is to be mass produced and marketed to the public. The photograph is blurred and dim, but shows the ship itself, tethered in a nondescript warehouse. Despite the quality of the image, it is obvious that the ship is in working condition. It floats a few feet in the air, sleek and polished. A masked workman stands off to one side of the shot to confirm the scale. On the back of the photograph, and printed on the letter, Pegasus' correspondent has scrawled his name in flowing cursive script.

"Mr Giffard always proves far more receptive to my ideas," remarks Pegasus nonchalantly.

Kaiba replaces the papers on the table.

He had not expected this – had not expected Pegasus to raise the stakes of their deadly game. Not now, as the cogs and gears of Kaiba's own plans grind slowly into motion, all steel and teeth and tantalising blue light. Whether Pegasus' correspondence with Giffard is a bluff – the letter faked; the French warehouse in reality situated discretely in some Sophia-forsaken corner of northern England or the Midlands – is another matter entirely. If Pegasus is to torment Kaiba with the support of his greatest rival, so be it. "Your point?" he enquires, his voice laced with a hint of barely concealed poison.

"Revolutionary." Pegasus seems to delight in the non sequiter, savouring each syllable with the same relish as his lemonade. "It is a word that has been bandied about all year," he narrows his eyes, and Kaiba is reminded of his king's warning. "-and to no avail," adds Pegasus, after a pause that is so blatant as to be audible. "I have yet to see more than minor innovations to the field of steam." For a moment, it seems that Pegasus will not address the odd twist of meaning to his words, and then he smiles, dangerously. "Mr Kaiba, did you believe I was talking about politics?"

Kaiba does not deign to reply.

Pegasus continues. "You and Mr Giffard both own large, affluent corporations, capable of manufacturing my designs." He pauses, ready to deliver his ultimatum. "…The question I pose to you both: how much is domination of the market, annihilation of your opponent and _revolutionary_ technology worth? In my opinion-" he gazes up through long eyelashes, and a single point of blue dances in the centre of his right eye. Somewhere in the vicinity of his spine, just beneath his stomach, a part of Kaiba freezes. "-about fifty percent."

Under the table, Kaiba stretches his fingers to prevent them bunching into fists, and he schools his expression into careful neutrality. Considering Pegasus' look of sheer glee, he allows his own to melt into derision. "What makes you think," he asks carefully – he cannot afford to lose his composure, "that I would strike a deal with a devil to aid me at the height of my success?" A gust of wind, and Kaiba swallows as the pungent scent of the flowers redoubles in intensity.

"Fifty percent of your company," Pegasus repeats, as though Kaiba had said nothing at all. "The same offer I presented to Giffard – though I would prefer not to outsource." He leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I feel the man is losing his touch alongside his eyesight. I would much rather select a younger, sharper and… homespun… partner, such as yourself. However," he falls back into his chair, though not before retrieving the letter and the photograph. "-my little foibles are not conductive to business. I would choose to set them aside, should a deal with Giffard become my only option. Though, were that the case, I would like to know in advance." He waits for some indication that Kaiba is following his rambling thoughts and, when none is forthcoming, continues. "In exchange for fifty percent of Kaiba Corporation, I would like to beckon a new age for transport. I will wait a week, Mr Kaiba, for your response."

Pegasus lapses into silence. Somewhere, a blackbird whistles cheerfully, and a few streets away, a bustle of afternoon carts, workers and airships make their ponderous way towards various destinations. The sky is beginning to redden, and Kaiba is grateful, for it dulls the ubiquitous, all-consuming blue that has surrounded him for hours, leaching insistently into his brain. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of a half-acknowledged thought, he thinks that he hears someone murmur his name.

Steeling himself, Seto Kaiba stands. He grabs his coat from the back of his chair, and shrugs it on about his shoulders.

"No," he says, crisply. And then, before Pegasus can recover enough to say another word: "I can show myself out." He leaves his host stranded on the roof, lost for words. No doubt Pegasus' mood is souring by the moment.

For the duration of his journey home, Kaiba is silent. He walks, as opposed to taking a cab, wary of any driver that might find him so near to Pegasus' house, and unwilling to dismiss his apprehension as paranoia. It is only somewhere between his front door and his study that Kaiba begins to comprehend the absurdity of what has taken place.

"That fool," he snarls, to the empty room, and slams the door behind him. "That damned fool has no _idea_ of the forces at work here."

The carpet flashes indigo with every footstep, and cyan swirls hazily around Kaiba's desk. He avoids it, throwing himself instead against a blank stretch of wall where there once hung a painting. It occurs to him that he is fighting losing battles, on many fronts.

Then, he pictures Pegasus' face, and scoffs at the expression. Finally, he gives in, and closes his eyes (the insides of the lids are painted navy). He laughs, softly and experimentally, and it warps into a maniacal cackle, shot with azure. The cackle rolls and broadens, and soon the room resounds with the great, mirthless guffaws of Seto Kaiba.

**xXx**

**Extra notes: **

**- Can you tell I had way, way too much fun writing the Marik scene? Because, well. I did. **

**... Totally not based on my own past political experiences, and/or **_**Les Miserables. **_


	20. Chapter 20

_**Previously, on Marik Ishtar's Question Time...**_

**Ishizu exposits on how she attempted to infiltrate Revealing Light in order to find her brother, who she believes to have been kidnapped at the time of her father's murder. Atem thinks this is all irrelevant, and that they should all be focussing on his – sorry, Mahaado's problems. Yugi, Honda and Jonouchi frolic for a bit; Jonouchi mentions his sister, who has recently married a nobleman and is on her honeymoon in France. Meanwhile, in France, the thieves are settling in and getting involved in all kinds of heated political debates – including with each other, at least indirectly. Back in London, Pegasus issues his final ultimatum: Kaiba must agree to work with him, and together they will manufacture his ship, else Pegasus will soon put KaibaCorp out of business with his superior airship designs. Kaiba refuses, goes home – and laughs. **

**Meanwhile, **_**chez Pegasus...**_

**xXx**

That morning, Frederick Moloney graces the fuchsia-papered sitting room with a gleaming silver platter in hand, upon which rest a plate of butter-drenched crumpets, a crisp, newly-ironed copy of _The Portent, _and a fat, recently purchased volume of Emily Bronte's _Wuthering Heights. _He dips into a courteous bow upon entry, shallow enough so as not to upset the contents of the plate – and shallower still to assuage his nigh perpetually affronted pride. Perpetually affronted – in case the thought needed reiterating in his mind – by the incessant and inexplicable follies of his perennially gauche, unforgivably lax employer, who, for want of worthier causes with which to occupy himself, persists in demanding access to the most unsuitable of reading material. To say nothing of engaging in all manner of provoking displays of philosophy.

Familiarity with novels, one may forgive in a gentleman. Literary criticism – never.

In that jovial, cumbersome manner altogether typical of his parasitic class, Maximilien Pegasus peels away at pedantic little textual quibbles with a queer variety of visceral glee, in the same way a small child might pick at a brown paper parcel on the Sophian Solstice. It is unnerving to observe. Moloney wishes to high heaven he might stumble upon some more distracting vocation, to quell the incessant literary babble. If only he might turn to something less destructive; philanthropy, for instance, seems to be the current vogue, and might end up, provided the Pegasus family fortune is not entirely squandered on a dearth of soup kitchens and orphanages by the end of the fad, being ultimately less ruinous than any intellectual pretensions.

"Do make haste, Moloney; I have no desire to see you hover about the doorway like some recalcitrant shade." This cheerful rebuke is directed from the far end of the room. Without lifting his gaze from the Arabian rug stretched across the floor, Moloney places it from roughly the location of the window seat.

Stiffly, he straightens, and notes that he is correct in his conjecture: Pegasus lies sprawled, in as effortless and languid a pose as anyone ever caught him, about the rust-hued cushions below the broad, white panes. Behind the glass, nestled amidst the crisp-mown viridian of the eastern garden, sits a trickling fountain, providing a suitably picturesque backdrop in muted shades of glassy blue as counterbalance to the vivid interior. As though on cue, the faintest chirps of birdsong may be detected: a soft, murmuring undercurrent to the subsequent patter of dialogue. The surroundings seem so very animated by comparison to the inertia of their occupant that Moloney finds himself wishing rather irritably that he might stifle them. A golden sheath of sunlight falls so artfully across the entire scene that he briefly considers the idea that the weather itself is conspiring against him to produce as sickeningly fictional a view as it can muster.

The air is no longer made oppressive by heady Kemetic perfume; after a couple of weeks of dabbling in the substances, Pegasus announced that they gave him a terrible headache, and must be taken away at once – an order with which Moloney complied with rare enthusiasm. Now, at least the household may breathe unencumbered.

That said, there is the snuff with which to contend. Pegasus has taken it upon himself to collect ornamental snuff boxes, ordered from every corner of the globe – and has, quite as a secondary consequence, decided to partake in the habit himself. Moloney does not doubt that the powdery grains of his employer's newfound pet vice shall soon clog every inch of the poorly ventilated mansion, and hinder the respiration once more.

"Sir, I have brought the book you requested, along with today's paper, and breakfast."

"Marvellous!" Pegasus actually claps his hands in delight, as though the appearance of food and entertainment is tantamount to one of those frivolous operas of which he is so fond.

Lacking both the inclination and the confidence in his tenor range to regale him with an aria, Moloney settles for presenting the book with a miniature flourish.

Pegasus gives a satisfied giggle. "_Wuthering Heights! _Ah, I remember this book from my days in the schoolroom. It quite captivated me, when I was younger. What struck me was its beautiful symmetry – the way that intricate little novel-world rose up in turmoil for all of a few hundred pages, and then gracefully resettled, like a great bird briefly stretching its harlequin feathers, before folding them back under its breast once more." The pinnacle of this languid little diatribe is punctuated by a soft, sharp crunch as he takes a swift bite out of a crumpet, lifted soundlessly from Moloney's platter. Grinning impishly, he waits.

And waits a little while longer.

Moloney knows that he is waiting, but dash it all if that means he is obliged to respond. Let his master indulge in whichever flights of rhetorical fancy he will; his butler will not relent to any more conversational demands than are directly expressed. Implicit cues for incredulity are fair game; he will ignore them in good conscience.

Pegasus gives it a good few more seconds before conceding defeat. With an almost audible sigh, the grin is replaced by an unusual little grimace; quite unprecedented, for it is his custom to feign obliviousness to any and all passive-aggressive barbs his butler might toss his way. Moloney feels a small thrill of victory. "What I mean to say," he announces, with a rather petulant edge to his voice, "is that order in Emily Bronte's world reasserts itself with astonishing resilience. Think about it for one moment, Moloney! The savage violence of the novel's earlier passages is soothed to calm by the assumption of natural rights. The true heirs to Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, once dispossessed, are returned to their rightful property; the usurper – vanquished. The world has an uncanny talent for setting itself to rights." Steadily, his tone deepens and darkens, until it emerges as a veritable hiss of spite. "Oh, yes. Forces far greater than the minds of men work ever so assiduously – yet patiently! So patiently – to restore what once was lost. The universe functions according to marvellous laws of continuity, would you not agree?"

Faced with a direct query, Moloney can think of no plausible excuse to refuse an answer. "I would say that science can capture all that, sir," he rejoins, tersely.

"Science?" Pegasus' face crumples into deep furrows of amusement and incredulity. "A pox on science!" The last word resounds loudly across the room, producing the faintest shadow of an echo. Moloney flinches, reflexively. Pegasus seems startled by his own vehemence, and averts his eyes. "I am talking of tradition," he finishes, almost penitently, still focussed on the floor, scanning the pattern of the rug that has garnered such excessive interest from the room's occupants this hour.

Moloney gives a delicate cough.

Pegasus' head snaps upwards at the sound, as though timed to some mechanical trigger. Fine, fraught particles of silence begin to settle about all surfaces.

Hitching his chin upwards with colossal dignity, Moloney sweeps it away. "I hear there is to be trouble on the streets tomorrow, sir," he observes, thinly.

Pegasus' eyes momentarily widen, as though his butler has committed the most vile and revolting transgression against proprietary imaginable, and all he can possibly do is look on with incomprehension. Happily, the moment passes. "Yes – some kind of airship dockers' strike," he says, fumbling with the folds of the paper. "Unofficial unions becoming uppity again; attempting to reassert a significance they never originally possessed. I daresay it shall peter out a number of hours after it begins."

"You are astute as ever, sir. Yet, when one considers the disproportionate amount of damage an aggregate of ragtag buffoons can effect, one is given cause for... concern."

Pegasus merely shrugs. With a cultivated air of nonchalance, he dips into the embroidered pocket of his dove-grey waistcoat, and produces an enamelled snuffbox, decorated prettily with a painted scene from Marlowe's _Edward II. _Exaggeratedly, he flips the lid open, and takes a delicate pinch of the substance, applying it to his flared nostrils with an elegant, practiced flick of the wrist.

Seconds later, he dissolves into a mass of explosive sneezes. "Bah!" In one, petulant motion, the offending receptacle is flung across the room, where it clatters dejectedly against the spindly legs of the pianoforte, spilling soft, white powder onto the edge of the carpet.

Moloney winces. "I – er – take it that this particular Swedish blend is not to your liking, sir?"

"Confound it all, Moloney, you can see perfectly well that I find it absolutely vile! Why such an aesthetically refined habit must involve the consumption of such odious stuff is beyond all comprehension." He finishes with a decided snort – disgusted, yet bizarrely dignified. "Purchase another brand. Anything but this abhorrent mixture!"

Moloney takes this demand as his cue to leave. Sweeping up the discarded snuff box, he exits with as much haste as he can courteously muster.

**xXx**

All things considered, Anzu is astounded with herself. The weight of betrayal need not chafe so heavily against her shoulders. Surely, she reasons, she must have been expecting such a burden. Her relationship with the King's Regent has reached a critical moment at which its basic nature must undergo a fundamental shift, else wither into nothing more than fraught familiarity. Training Anzu was never high on Mai's list of priorities, it seems. Anzu submitted to the somewhat patronising, almost offensive offer of 'improvement' with a wry edge; it seemed a game, wherein her mild offence at being objectified only served as yet another quip in an intentionally satirical setup. A mutual sport. Truly, it was an excuse. Mai has done little to alter any of Anzu's outward behaviour beyond the tired superficialities. Painted face and perfect posture – yes. Yet this seemed little more than a show - a reason to secure Anzu's company: laud the social superiority a little, but in jest, and for the most part in order to evoke a suitably combative response. Claws sheaved, there was little that was earnest about the clashes.

But Anzu has changed regardless – and not by royal decree, or indeed any intervention from Mai Kujaku save the indirect. She has gained firsthand experience of high politics and consolidated it with a sprinkling of assiduous book learning – enough to feel competent in presenting a form of challenge. For throughout their interactions, however much levity plays its role, and however great the leeway Her Majesty allows, Mai's superiority has never been open to question. That barrier has always existed between them, like a thin pane of glass preventing Anzu from venturing any further, and Mai from retracing her steps.

Well. Glass is suitably fragile.

Anzu intends to break things today – and she begins, as is always advised in such situations, neatly and unobtrusively.

It is with grim determination that she approaches her friend in the palace armouries, where he is busy conducting a procedural safety inspection on a ceremonial sabre ordered for the king. This seems to involve staring at the hilt in abstracted contemplation, and surreptitiously blunting the edges on the off-chance that it might encounter any use. At her approach, he drops his work and greets her with a friendly wave. It occurs to Anzu that, out of all the palace's inhabitants, his situation is the closest approximation of her own: he has risen high, and with dizzying pace – and somehow, in spite of it all, he has slotted into place at the shoulders of royalty with breathtaking ease. And yet, she reflects, out of the two of them, he chose perhaps the worthier patron.

"Do you remember last week, when I mentioned I wanted to purchase some clothes of my own; perhaps explore some of London's shops – that sort of thing? And you reminded me, rather quaintly, that I needed an escort?"

Honda gives a short nod in acknowledgement.

"Well – how's today? If you're not too busy?"

Honda's expression of welcome dissolves into apprehension. "Today? Miss Mazaki – Anzu – you probably haven't heard, but they expect the city to be a fairly dangerous place today. The airship dockers are on strike, and several streets are to be closed. I don't think it'll amount to much, but there could be rioting – and a clash with the Peelers, almost definitely."

Anzu's gaze hardens. "And we," she says, slowly, "will be going shopping."

A brief contest of wills ensues, in which Anzu firmly indicates with a short, irritated flicker of the eyelashes that she intends to go outside with or without the presence of a chaperone, and logic would forbid that Honda leave her to wander London's perilous streets unaccompanied. Honda's eyebrow twitches in tacit rebuttal: _you wouldn't make it one step out of the gates before I informed the Regent. _Anzu wrinkles her nose and gives a snappish toss of the head. _She wouldn't give a d-mn about me or my whereabouts. You know she gives me free rein. _Judging by the acquiescing plunge of Honda's shoulders, this wordless, calculated bluff of hers has paid off. He relents.

"Get your hat."

Anzu treats him to a broad, delighted grin. "Sophia forbid I should risk my health and welfare hatless," she remarks, and darts off to prepare before he can stop think better of his decision.

**xXx**

In his haste to avoid detection, Yugi all but tumbles away from the window frame, where he has been peering at the scene in the armouries since Anzu entered. He lands rather unceremoniously in the flower bed below.

Seemingly unperturbed, he brushes a little soil off the hem of his shirt. Unabashed, he looks up at his companion, squinting a little in the direct sunlight. "So... we _are _going to be following them, right?" he asks.

Jonouchi snorts. "Obviously."

**xXx**

Even having experienced Italy – even having slumped in streets not a few minutes' walk from the shimmering expanse of Alexandria's wealthier quarters – Ryou still surveys Paris with a kind of disbelieving awe. A week after his arrival, he finds that one of the great joys of the city is window shopping. He strolls down myriad crowded avenues, lingering at shop windows long enough to leave hazy rings of breath against the glass. He sees dresses with broad, rippling sleeves and fashionably tousled skirts; gowns like waterfalls of folded silk; waistcoats and cravats displayed in elegant, muted greys and browns. The food also catches his attention: glazed pastries like little china ornaments, glistening and sickly. However, Ryou passes these by quickly. After all, by now, he has been dragged to enough cafes and patisseries to last him a lifetime.

Gazing at a display of notepaper patterned in every conceivable shade of lavender and cyan, the back of Ryou's neck prickles uncomfortably, and he feels warm breath on his cheek a moment too late, as light hands land on his shoulders. He spins, poised to slam a fist into his assailant's face. Instead, he finds himself nose to nose with Marik, who catches Ryou's wrist in his signature grip: as seemingly insubstantial as butterfly wings, with a core of rough diamond.

Half drunk with exhilaration, grin splayed across his face for all to see, Marik gives his wrist an insistent tug. Ryou opens his mouth to exasperatedly tell the thief that, if his premature death of shock is the man's goal, he is making good progress. He is silenced with a finger pressed momentarily to his lips, which surprises him so much that he does not try to speak again, allowing himself to be pulled along the polished streets. He raises his free hand to his mouth, as though he might feel the imprint of the touch, and, when that fails, attempts instead to scrutinise Marik's expression. But the thief is turned resolutely away, intent on reaching some unknown destination, so Ryou follows in a heady mixture of anticipation and far less annoyance than is strictly necessary, wrist still captive.

They are south of the Seine, and Ryou has to quicken his pace to keep up with Marik's longer stride, barely registering the roads they pass as they make their way through a dizzying tangle of increasingly narrow streets. He wonders why they cannot just call a cab, and contemplates asking, but cannot bring himself to break the rules of this baffling new game long enough to speak. Finally, after at least ten minutes of fast, silent walking, Marik comes to an abrupt halt. Ryou nearly trips over the thief's feet before he is released.

They are stood before a small, quaint coffee shop, identical to the many others they have frequented over the course of their stay in Paris. A sign over the window informs Ryou in deep blue lettering that its name is Café de Minuit.

"Really?" he finds himself saying, and is mildly sorry to break the carefully crafted silence. He cannot shake a strange, pervasive sense of anticlimax.

Marik shakes his head, still mute, and then, seeing Ryou's expression, lets out a heavy, disappointed sigh. "You just _had_ to ruin the mystery with your misplaced cynicism," he says, voice reproachful and more than little petulant.

"Misplaced?" inquires Ryou somewhat hopefully, and receives an entirely unimpressed look. Before he can make further comment, Marik disappears into the building, evidently meaning to recapture at least a hint of the mystique of their journey.

Inside, the café is poorly lit, its windows coated in a patina of aging dust, and Ryou looks up to see plaster flaking from the ceiling. The place is nondescript to the point that it seems a purposefully cultivated image; it replicates exactly the features that Ryou has seen in every coffee shop in Paris. Patrons are sprawled elegantly around a multitude of spindly wooden tables, and a menu is scrawled in chalk on the back wall, either through an unfortunate desire to make the place appear somewhat eccentric, or for the more practical purpose of hiding the crumbling brickwork.

Marik bounds past all of this without sparing it a second glance, leading Ryou up a stairwell nestled discretely in the far corner. They ascend to a similarly furnished room – a far quieter affair than the ground floor. Whilst seemingly open to customers, it is completely empty, save one man slumped in an overstuffed armchair.

Bakura glances up from the espresso he is nursing, and narrows his eyes. "You're late," he admonishes.

Taking a seat nearest the window – one side of a frayed beige sofa – Ryou finds himself beginning to strongly desire coffee of his own. "Why did you drag me here?"

With great dignity, Marik settles next to him. "The demon doubts my judgement," he laments, to the world at large. Bakura ignores him in favour of sipping his drink. "Besides," Marik adds, rather more sharply, "it's precisely ten o'clock."

Bakura peers over the rim of his cup. Swallowing, he makes a great show of rifling through his coat to find a watch.

"Having troubles?" enquires Marik, innocently.

"I find myself keeping my pocket watch in increasingly improbable places," says Bakura, retrieving the object from what appears to be a compartment concealed in his sleeve. "It's the paranoia. Trauma-induced, I'm sure."

Ryou chokes and sputters something incoherent. Marik cheerfully slaps him on the back. "Well?"

Bakura closes the watch with a snap, idly twisting the chain between his fingers. It gleams, mesmerising as ever. "Thirty-two minutes past."

Slinging one arm around Ryou's unsuspecting shoulders, Marik fixes his partner with a charming smile. "What's thirty-two minutes between friends?" he asks, grin widening into a smirk as Bakura snorts, unamused.

Having witnessed theses antics for long enough to know exactly the point at which it becomes necessary to put an end to them (preferably a few seconds before one thief tackles the other, but generally only after they have had the chance to deliver several witty retorts each, or else they will sulk), Ryou interrupts. "I don't see the seeds of revolution, ready to be sown in the fertile soil of dissent," he remarks, and feels a rush of satisfaction as Bakura sniggers.

Before he replies, Marik pauses to delicately remove his arm from Ryou's shoulders, presumably taking offense at his betrayal. "That, demon," he says lightly, "was a most unsavoury metaphor. You ought to be ashamed." Turning to Bakura, his expression becomes uncharacteristically serious. "Well?"

"I have assessed the situation," says Bakura smoothly. He cups his chin in one hand, considering the wallpaper (an incredibly unattractive magnolia). Then, he seems to realise how cryptic the statement sounded, and shoots Ryou a smirk through splayed fingers. "It seems circumstances have changed in the eight months since our last visit."

"What-" Ryou begins, exasperatedly, and Marik speaks over him. "How so?"

Gesturing vaguely with his coffee cup, Bakura shrugs. "The Star has not seen the light of day in a very long time. Some say months, others years. I'm disinclined to believe the latter."

"And the former?" inquires Marik. By now, Ryou is entirely sure that they are doing this on purpose. They plotted this aboard the _Diabound_, no doubt, stealing amused glances at each other over his head at the breakfast table, stifling their laughter at their own audacity.

"We had best resign ourselves," says Bakura. Ryou considers leaving. He can only imagine the expressions this would produce.

"You know," he says, in one final attempt to glean some form of acknowledgement, "I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

Marik rarely does anything as so undignified as to snigger. Fortunately, Bakura has no such qualms. In fact, both thieves seem to be finding it remarkably difficult to keep straight faces.

"I suppose," says Marik, making a heroic attempt not to laugh, "we forgot to tell you."

"He forgot to tell you," Bakura interjects. "I never made any promises."

"We meet today in order to plan your first heist!" declares Marik, with a grandiose gesture that misses Ryou's nose by less than an inch.

"Oh," says Ryou. And then: "that's nice." He receives two identical disparaging looks, both of which manage to convey in no uncertain terms that he is thoroughly dull, disappointingly predictable and, furthermore, chronically incapable of tying his cravat. Tugging self-consciously at his neck wear, Ryou attempts to rephrase his response. "I mean, I can't really think of much else to say, under the circumstances. It's all a little sudden, and I'm not as prone to spontaneous fits of verbosity as you are-"

The arm around his shoulders is replaced, this time in sympathy.

"Wretch," says Bakura, almost gently, "just ask what we plan to steal, and stop talking."

Ryou quickly comes to the conclusion that it will be better for everyone – and, more importantly, his own sanity – if he complies. "What do you plan to steal?" he asks, resigned.

"What do _we_ plan to steal," Marik corrects him. "After all, you'll be involved. And, in answer to your question: the Star of Eternity."

Finishing his coffee, Bakura elaborates. "Twenty carats of internally flawless blue diamond, cut by one of Paris' leading jewellers and lodged in a silver pendant."

"How much is it worth?" breathes Ryou.

Immediately, he is treated to the most scalding of glares. "We're not selling it," Marik says fervently, as though Ryou had inquired as to the value of his firstborn child, or the _Diabound._ "We're keeping it as a token. It's the third most sought after jewel in France and anyone who could successfully steal it would be lauded as one of the greatest thieves in Western Europe."

"Which is, as you know, one of our many goals," says Bakura, raising his empty cup in a mock toast.

Ryou leans back in his seat to consider this. Marik automatically rearranges himself into a more comfortable position, sprawling horizontally across the sofa and resting his head on Ryou's shoulder. "The last we heard," he says, inspecting his fingernails, "was that the Star belonged to the Marquis d'Heilly. It has been in his family for several generations: his great grandfather, penniless, acquired it on an expedition to Africa. The man intended to seek gold, and found it, but also came across the diamond." Here, Marik pauses, frowning. On closer inspection, Ryou sees that he has chipped the nail of his index finger. "The current Marquis gave the Star to his wife as a present on their fifth anniversary, as a symbol of both his devotion, and the family's prosperity."

Here, Bakura cuts in. "Therein lies the problem."

"Their prosperity?" enquires Ryou.

"No, the Marquis' devotion. Or rather, his lack thereof." Bakura heaves a world weary sigh, as though he can barely stand to contemplate the cardinal sin of infidelity. "When his marriage was flourishing, he and his wife threw spectacular parties, and often exhibited the Star. Word on the street is that d'Heilly has been unfaithful to his wife, and thus their relationship is – put delicately – in a remarkably similar state to the wretch, prior to his miraculous salvation."

Ryou makes an irritated noise, and is spared a condescending grin by one thief, and a ripple of appreciative laughter from the other.

"Our plan was to enter the d'Heilly household as guests," Bakura continues, "but that seems impossible."

Now, Marik sits up, mirth and the state of his manicure forgotten entirely. His expression is one of intense concentration, mingled with an odd sort of delight at the useless tangle that their plans have become. "There must be another way," he murmurs, idly tracing a figure of eight on the chequered tablecloth. "Where is the Star kept when it is not on display?"

Bakura slams one palm on the table, arresting all movement. Ryou refrains from making a comment on the melodrama this entails. "This is the part where it gets interesting."

"Because, prior to learning that all your plans had been thwarted, it was incredibly dull," Ryou says dryly, unable to contain himself.

"We shouldn't have taught him sarcasm," Bakura growls – though not a moment later, his grin returns. "Interruptions aside, numerous thieves have attempted to steal the Star of Eternity, and by their accounts, it is locked in a vault, the key to which is entrusted to the Marquise. I could not obtain the vault's location, but I do know the layout of the house."

"Eight months ago," Marik explains, "we paid a social visit to the d'Heilly household. The caviar was a triumph."

"The champagne equally delightful," Bakura adds.

"Yet your attention was far more focussed on the Duc de Thouars."

Bakura gives his partner a long, flat look. "And yours on Belleford. Hypocrisy is the greatest character flaw, brat, rivalled only by sanctimony. You appear to possess both in equal measure."

Fast realising that the thieves are derailing the conversation again, and deeply uncertain as to whether he dares learn more about their previous visit to the d'Heilly's, Ryou interrupts. "Can't we find someone who knows the location of the Star? Someone who visited their house with you."

Marik falls back in defeat. The sofa gives a wheeze of protest. "The guests never see where it is kept – the Marquise wears it from the moment it leaves the vault."

"The staff must know," Bakura points out, gesturing with his empty cup. "What kind of nobleman polishes their own silver?"

"So, you accost their butler to find out, fine." Grabbing the cup out of Bakura's hands (ignoring his bemused expression), Marik dips his finger in the dregs of coffee, drawing a rough square on the table cloth. "If we can jimmy a window open, I can get us to any floor on the house." Triumphantly, he places the cup on the top left corner of the square. "They have a dumbwaiter."

"It connects to every floor?" Bakura asks, looking sceptical.

Carefully, Marik scoops three lumps from their table's sugar bowl into the cup. "Absolutely." He walks the spoon across the table. "I'll deal with the Marquise."

"How?"

The thieves look up, as though woken from a reverie. Ryou can only assume they had forgotten that he existed. "How?" he repeats.

A lump of sugar is flicked towards the spoon. "I'll deal," Marik replies cryptically. "Just wait ten minutes after I go in, then follow. Open the back door from the inside. From there, I'll meet you in the dumbwaiter on the ground floor. We'll work out the rest once we know where the Star is kept."

Bakura delicately picks up the sugar lump, and pops it in his mouth.

"Can a dumbwaiter really fit all three of us?" Ryou asks, and watches the thieves consider.

"Potentially," says Marik, after much deliberation.

"Then maybe," Ryou continues, hoping to at least add something to the plan, "we can leave one person on the ground floor. Why would the vault be on the ground floor? One person can stay there and tug on the rope of the dumbwaiter if they need to alert the other two." Hopefully, he takes a fourth sugar lump, and dumps it next to the cup to replace the one Bakura ate.

Tiring of his own antics, Marik tips the lumps into a pile, neatens its edges with the spoon, turns the cup upside down and uses it to cover the entire mess. Ryou spares a thought for the person who will invariably have to clean up after they are gone, only to watch Marik lift the cup to reveal – nothing. He sticks his tongue out, and Ryou catches a glimpse of all three lumps before the thief swallows. "Magic," Marik says simply.

"Fine," snarls Bakura, evidently annoyed at any diversions from the plan, "we'll leave you on the ground floor, Marik. Wretch, you'll come with me to retrieve the Star. Should make the entire thing tens times less insufferable."

"But I've never-"

Bakura stands with a swish of his coat, silencing all protests. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a butler to inebriate."

**xXx**

**Extra Notes:**

**- Edward II is, in fact, and extremely violent play, with a particularly gruesome denouement. There is no way that anyone other than Pegasus would choose to engrave a scene from that play onto a snuff box. Call it a literary in joke. **

**- Oh, and Pegasus' reactionary views on Wuthering Heights are deliriously short sighted. Just saying. **


End file.
